‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. He laughed at her heartily, and she laughed too as she had not for a year. “Absolutely platonically,” she said. He let go of the girl’s arm. ‘Come inside at once, child. It is a matter of degree.
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