The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. ” “It’s Shari’s work. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. “Who did you live with before the Becks? I hear things. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. Their minds are turned against him. ” The ants seemed to salute in attention.
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