‘I am not French in the least, bête. This is grace I am saying! Oh! my dear! all the joy and weeping of life are mixed in me now and all the gratitude. I can now give myself to God utterly; no human emotion will ever be shuttling in between. ‘Here we go again. When I am angry, I can get very mean. I don't know; I really don't know," she found herself repeating. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase.
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