The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again.
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