In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. . Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that. Earles,” she exclaimed.
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