He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Wood, disdainfully. So far she had not heard the sound of his voice. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. She had set out to get a beautiful life, a free, untrammelled life, self-development, without counting the cost either for herself or others. The eyes, too, though large and bright, and shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in men, a faithless and uncertain disposition. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. One doesn’t want to lose a grain. Luckily I’m not.
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