He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. ” “Every one hasn’t the Gift. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. Her confession was still unmade. Then, in a few years, he and Ruth might fare forth in comfort and security. Her defence ceased rapidly to be in any sense ladylike, and became vigorous and effective; a strand of black hair that had escaped its hairpins came athwart Ramage’s eyes, and then the knuckles of a small but very hardly clinched fist had thrust itself with extreme effectiveness and painfulness under his jawbone and ear. He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked.
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