‘So are you. “Mere sensuality. Too much, perhaps. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. " He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. He was consumed with desire. You only live a block away!” 236 “I’ll do my best. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. . “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal.
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