The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. It was no use. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. The customary gold band was missing; but a soft gold Chinese ring Spurlock had picked up in Singapore—the characters representing good luck and prosperity—was slipped over Ruth's third finger. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. It is not so. I am very, very sorry, but you must listen to me. The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad. Darrell.
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