Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. It was open. You see, I kidnapped poor Jack and made him promise to send me word if you went careering off anywhere. " "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph.
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