"How?" cried her brother, starting. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. Only a book detective could dope this out. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. ’ ‘Then you’re mad,’ Roding said flatly, and suddenly grinned.
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