Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. “Nigel, don’t you understand. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. ‘Gabbling and muttering in a foreign tongue, that’s what I heard, sir,’ had declared the gap-toothed ancient, when he told them of the initial foray he had made, sneaking around the house in the dark. “Yes,” said Ann Veronica, trying to think where they were, trying to get things plain again that had seemed plain enough in the quiet of the night. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes. Wood, in a taunting tone.
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