It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. “Who can tell?” she said. Ruth, having decided a course for herself—that of renunciation—and having the strength to keep it, met these advances in precisely the mood they were offered. Let me engage myself. ‘It is that he needed me for his lie, no?’ Melusine said, striving to control the quiver in her voice. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. Entranced, he stared at the name. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew.
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