In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. "If I am the devil," observed Wild, "as some folks assert, and I myself am not unwilling to believe, you'll find that I differ from the generally-received notions of the arch-fiend, and faithfully execute the commands of those who confide their souls to my custody. Already Cosette was her chosen friend. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. Was the girl seriously expecting him to pull the trigger? Lord, but she had courage! ‘Shoot, then,’ urged the lady. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know.
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