The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. " "So do I," replied Ruth. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. I want you to be my lover. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that.
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