She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. That there would eventually be a lover Ruth knew; and she waited his appearance upon the scene, waited with an impatience which was both personal and literary. Suddenly he stopped short.
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