The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. ‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered. “I don’t know, John. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. Be on your guard. “Home, of course,” she answered. “But your sister,” he said. It’s not like we’re getting married.
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