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He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. ‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours. Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. But some people have no consideration. He should never sufficiently be able to regret the return which they had made to her.
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