She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. As she approached, the carpenter's wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes.
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