Inside was Anna, leaning a little forward to watch the passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the brim of the insatiable curiosity of youth—the desire to understand and appreciate this new world in which she found herself. Was there no echo anywhere in Miss Stanley’s pacified brain? Those empty rooms, if they were empty, were the equivalents of astoundingly decorated predecessors. I knew it. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth. I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. .
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