He hated the taste of it. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. It was bleeding again. It was a reputation by no means deserved. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. He whispered in her ear. Whenever they stepped from the chairs, he stepped down. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. . After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me.
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