Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. She would be extraordinarily interesting as a metaphysical study. “Very well,” she would say, “then I must go. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. She recoiled. Why, he can scarcely be twenty. Sheppard, eagerly.
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