"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. Anna was married. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices.
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