This morning I met him at the dock, and he wouldn't take the other fifty. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. I was certain of it. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features.
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