Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. . But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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