And this is not France, you understand. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. ’ Gerald infused sympathy into his voice, and deliberately addressed himself to Madame. Wood. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. " "You're fine, too. Its importance had vanished with her abandonment of compromise. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon.
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