A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. "I haven't offended you?"—not contritely but curiously. She took up a book and threw it down again. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. For my blood you made it very hot indeed.
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