For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. Until two hours ago she was as contented and as happy as a linnet. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. ’ ‘Unfair!’ echoed his junior. ” “It is ironic that you say that, John, for it is I who am afraid of you. ’ ‘Comment?’ she demanded with some heat. I can’t. She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. It will be altogether you. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. .
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