He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. ” He smiled at her. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations.
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