Winter came at the manor. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. Love anywhere. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. ‘And then vanished into thin air,’ rejoined Hilary on a sardonic note.
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