He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. Once more he begged; but as Ruth only repeated her sharp command, he spun about and raced toward the jungle. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. Hang the wench! Roding was right. Our quarrel's quite over. They are not your flowers. Ruth shivered; she was cold. He was no doubt doing his best to express the attitude of society toward these wearily heroic defendants, but he seemed to be merely rude and unfair to Ann Veronica.
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