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CHAPTER XIV Ruth lost the point entirely. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. “Hello, John. Sheppard!" sighed Winifred, as she contemplated the beautiful wreck before her,—"Poor Mrs. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. Don’t try. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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