“I dare not,” she answered. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. . “These are the times that would make me glad to live forever, if only they lasted. ‘For that I shall certainly not leave until you have told me every tiny detail. ’ ‘And she’d be right,’ Martha said severely. ‘That’s why I’m asking. But something instinctive prevented that, and with the finest resolve not to be “silly” and prudish she found that whenever he became at all bold in this matter she became severely scientific and impersonal, almost entomological indeed, in her method; she killed every remark as he made it and pinned it out for examination. "What has happened?" Ruth asked. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. "Hear me," he cried, restraining himself with difficulty.
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