” “What?” “That’s the devil of it!” “Devil of what?. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. ’ ‘Who were they?’ she asked abruptly. To call yourself ‘Alcide’! Your hair, your gestures, your voice, all mine! Oh, how dared you do it?” “You must not forget,” Anna said calmly, “that it is necessary for me also—to live. ” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing.
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