Lucy entered the room. "Take me, then," replied the widow. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. "Nobody has so much cause for complaint as me," growled Austin. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. He taught her how to read and write in Latin and Greek, often rewarding her for her efforts with a flower or a trinket. He returned to the car, Cokes in hand. She kept her face downcast. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. A vast indifference settled down upon him.
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