" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. "My child!" he groaned faintly. Run along now; but return in half an hour. ” Meddoes turned round from the table on which he was practising shots and shrugged his shoulders. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. I speak no harm of her. ’ Taking the chair she had indicated with a careless wave of one stiff-fingered hand, Gerald felt hope burgeoning. ” She stopped, and then suggested: “I wonder—I should love—if it was anything I said. " "Very well, sir.
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