“Such are women,” muttered the misanthrope. “When their own resources have failed them, they make one shallow hope an assurance, and appeal to a poor old man as if he were a god.”
“It is my last hope,” she moaned.
“What is your name?” he asked, absently.
“I am called Mrs. Grover,” she returned, “but that is not my real name.”
“And what might be your real name, then?”
“Purvis.”
“Ah, indeed. I have heard it before, I think,” he ejaculated, as he gave a convulsive start, while his eyes glared at her through the iron bars like those of a caged wolf who sniffs blood in the air.
There was a pause of several minutes—then he slowly unlocked the gate.
“You had better come in,” said he.
She entered.