She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. " "By no means," rejoined Wood, hastily. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. He would go there. These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself.
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