Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. “Been sitting on the doorstep almost for two hours. She struggled not to be afraid. In this way (he informed Spurlock) he kept posted on what was going on in the strictly commercial world. His glasses were gone. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence.
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