I have very few friends in Paris. Meanwhile, the excitement of the chase had in some degree subsided. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Parties, politics, and popular opinions have changed. Everything was blurred. Ruth, having decided a course for herself—that of renunciation—and having the strength to keep it, met these advances in precisely the mood they were offered. Only I’m so incensed with that crazy fool Gerald that—oh, well, never mind. CHAPTER XXX.
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