And he would let Ruth know, too, that he had mended his ways and was willing to go into her father's office.
Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market price for art.

The disappointment of it, the lie of it, the infamy of it, were uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closed eyelids, in fiery figures, burned the "$3.85" he owed the grocer.

He shivered, and was aware of an aching in his bones.

The small of his back ached especially.

His head ached, the top of it ached, the back of it ached, the brains inside of it ached and seemed to be swelling, while the ache over his brows was intolerable.