7. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. Winifred screamed. How can you protect me? Moreover, it is stealing that you have done, and therefore—’ ‘Don’t tell me you expect me to arrest myself again.
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