It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. “You must tell me the truth, please. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Remember! not a word!" So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood's shoulders, dashed the lantern to the ground, and extinguished the light. He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table. Framed in one of the square ports of the packet was a face which reminded Ah Cum of a Japanese theatrical mask. He smiled.
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