She pointed suddenly at the portrait. He was suddenly calm. ‘And if you like, I will tell you why. "I tell you what, Mr. What has become of the other?" "Why, surely you don't mean Jack Sheppard?" cried the woollen-draper in surprise. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins.
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