‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried. The chapel was crowded to excess. "Nothing!" echoed the other, scornfully. She was a very elegant young woman, slightly taller perhaps than her sister, and with an air of reserved strength underneath her quiet face and manner which Annabel may have lacked. If you know her for the vicious, scheming wretch that she is, why in God’s name—?’ ‘She’s not a vicious, scheming wretch,’ Gerald said calmly.
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