“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. That is my way, my dear. She washed her face twice after making smudgy eyeshadow and lipstick errors. Come close to me, and let me hold your hand, dear. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked.
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