. . The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. Through no fault of her own. "Anything that concerns Ruth is of interest to me. Your name?" "Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it. Forgive me, but you have been looking, have you not, for some employment?” “Quite true!” she answered.
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