If there were any pearls, none came into the light. "By all means," returned Wood; "don't delay an instant. There it was—to be borrowed. She saw how overworked he was. I thought it better not to send him away till I'd mentioned the circumstance to you. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. " Then he looked at Ruth. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. He had never liked to be hugged, but she wondered if his corporeal needs would be made apparent by human touch. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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