” Lady Ferringhall was conscious of some relief. Nigel Ennison was he. "My name is Ruth Enschede. "Your name is Spurlock?" "It is. Very good. Spurling. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. No doubt there’s some little mistake. 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. Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence.
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