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“I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. I ought to be able to think things out. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Charvill’s fury was burning out. So Ruth found that for a while her eyes were free. And nothing to tell her where to begin. She began to read, and presently she entered another world, and remained in it for two hours. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly.
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