’ ‘As a matter of fact, it isn’t,’ conceded Gerald. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. We were going at a mad pace. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. He was there concealed, waiting her return.
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