" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. "I'm never satisfied with a first attempt. Dorling said. He laughed at her heartily, and she laughed too as she had not for a year. It is just how things happen to be. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun. There was a little pain, but it wasn’t anything. \" She whirled around by instinct, frightening the boy who she had borrowed the pencil from. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. Winter came: rainy, damp, and savage. CHAPTER VIII.
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