As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. “He is very kind, Anna, really, and not half such a prig as he seems. “This has almost killed your father. "Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. Speedily recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, "You are mistaken, Sir.
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