She had no idea what she should do. She found herself trying on the baubles he brought home, placing the silver rings upon her slim fingers, knowing that he would take up her hand and kiss it. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. But she could not live in constant association with him without having these gaps filled. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. " "Of course," rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, "but that's easily accounted for. He will be sorry when he knows who I am,’ decided Melusine with satisfaction. Her little white hand stole across the table.
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