Ruth, standing by, heard his true laughter for the first time. She was weeping now. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. That is why I am glad that she has gone to London. Voilà tout. Please to let me go there. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy. Good-bye, Anna!” Annabel sprang up. “I would have given up anything to see you your old self again—as you are this evening.
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