“Well!” she declared good-humouredly. Ruth loved him. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. . . I had no curiosity of that kind. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. ‘Go on up to the boy, my dear. Besides, your remark is not in the least complimentary. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret.
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