Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. "I'll be their substitute. ” She fought to keep her teeth from chattering. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. He gave an order, the proa was floated and the sail run up. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. When she slipped off of it her head started to bob, filled with air. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. “Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously. “Allow me.
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