Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. So, adroitly and patiently, he pulled Ruth apart; that is, he plucked forth a little secret here, another there, until he had quite a substantial array. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. “You look great, Lucy. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief. “Can you take any from me?” “No, I won’t do that.
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