A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. ” “Ay,” he repeated, looking away from her. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ Gerald said calmly. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. I love you—with all my heart and soul. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands. You know, I’ve done no work at all this afternoon.
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