The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. There was a long silence between them. ’ ‘Take care,’ warned Hilary, his eyes on his improvised bandage. Before her was a great Gothic portal. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. Not since she had discovered it had Ruth touched or opened the mission Bible; but to-night (the same upon which the wonderful manuscripts started on their long and circuitous voyage to America) she was inexplicably drawn to it. They stood back together and stared at it.
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