The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. It is the bottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle. It isn’t the same thing. She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares.
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