Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way of yawning when she awoke. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself.
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