It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. I won’t try. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. . "Tomorrow I shall have a visitor.
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