Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. “Have to go now. But it is my fault. She was surprised at his modesty. And she was as shrewd as they come. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Wood started to his feet. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house.
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