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He is Jacques. Spurling, drily. CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. . We all did that in our youth, when first we came upon a fine story; else we were worthless metal indeed. Sheppard found it; and, as no one opposed her, she at once took up her abode there; nor was she long in discovering that the dreaded sounds proceeded from the nocturnal gambols of a legion of rats. It was a haunted place. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly.
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