. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. She was now permitted freely to study the face. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. 1 through 1.
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