" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. . It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. “By-the-bye,” he said, presently, “your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t she? I saw the notice in the papers. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. The devastations, however, were speedily made good, and, in two years more, it was finished. This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets. Oh! I'm in such a fluster!" Upon which, she snatched up her fan, cast a look into the glass, smoothed down her scarf, threw a soft expression into her features, and led the way into the next room, whither she was followed by her daughter and Thames Darrell.
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