Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. Ruth came to him directly. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. It needs cultivating, I think. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man.
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