It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself.
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