Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. I’m a soldier, you see. ‘To me, quickly!’ There was a brief hush, and then the shouts resumed and several pairs of feet clattered towards her from, as it seemed, several directions. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.
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