Wait a moment. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. The place for reading. Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page. ” “To a friend?” “To lodgings—alone. He went more easily this time. ” She said. ‘That way. She felt herself getting into a corner. ‘What now?’ ‘Now,’ she answered flatly, ‘you will please to tell me at once why you have come here. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. There was no answer. Plainly.
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