To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. But, after all, it will be different. He grunted a little with effort, and she realised the gilt frame must be heavy.
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