The inn was a military haunt. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. A faint buzz above the ceiling witnessed that petrography, too, was active. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. Just as he had told Gerald would be the case, there was nothing of interest to hear, especially as he had met the girl in London only last night. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. ’ She eyed him. And will you look! His name neatly cut out from each title page. " "Look at it, then," said Wild, giving him the portfolio.
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