Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts. John’s father brought down a violin from a high closet shelf. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. “Odd!” she said. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. You’re just a particular being with nothing else in the world to class with you. But, you see, she HAS to lie up.
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