It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. " "The boy's not at my house," replied Wild. “Not really. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. Don’t leave me.
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