They came teeming distressfully through her aching brain: “A man can kick, his skirts don’t tear; A man scores always, everywhere. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. Yet her embarrassment was only a passing thing.
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