Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. She is curiously altered in many ways. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. "Bah!" cried Jack, contemptuously; "nobody's disgraced and ruined unless he's found out. He made a note of the idea and stored it away.
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