CHAPTER V At dinner the spinsters invited Ruth to sit at their table, an invitation she accepted gratefully. Kind of knows it, too. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. I want to fill it with fine and precious things. “For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity. . . "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. Through that she had to go.
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