It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. But even you cannot alter her character. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. She needed to protect the baby. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling. She did not wince. He caught the smirk. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. All at once he saw a way out of the threatening doldrums. . And for me there is only one treasure-house.
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