As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. But it is all over now, and presently there will be some one else. You may have something to conceal, you may not. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. Lucy finished Michelle off, leaving only a dry, unrecognizable husk.
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