Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. Sometimes we had the Illustrated London News and Tit-Bits. There it was—to be borrowed. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good. " "Because he said he was a Yale man?" "That might be it. ” “And who made the arrangements for you, and sent you there?” Courtlaw asked.
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