Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. To her chagrin, he ignored her, and turned a venomous eye on his betrothed. “I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. Thieves and pickpockets are his constant companions. From then on he was Ruth's dog. “I don’t think she will,” she said. She was frowning, but it was evident that her initial fright had left her.
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