"That's scarcely a fair question, Mr. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. . She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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