Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. “What do you think you are doing?” He asked. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. Don't ask any more questions. She turned with an effort. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night.
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