"Not a moment is to be lost," cried Jack: "follow me. They were things I had meant very much to talk to you about, so that I went home vexed and disappointed, and only relieved myself a little by writing a few verses. It was then, I am sure, empty. Here it is. What's this?" he added, stooping to pick up a piece of paper lying at his feet—it was Jonathan's memorandum. Passing thought. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron.
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