McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. Never before had any human being kissed her lips. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. She turned to Lucilla, a plea in her face. ‘You are extremely empty-headed, Lucy. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. But he would make it a point not to speak again to the girl. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. She is no longer mine; she is yours. He hugged her when he saw her in the hallway.
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