Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. In some cases they were ground almost to powder; in others, driven deeply into the earth, as if discharged from a piece of ordnance. For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. “But if my manner tells! I cannot help it if that shows. It may bring us together again.
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