" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. Not afraid of me, either. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. The roofs and gables of many of the houses had been torn off. “Very well,” said her father. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble.
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