McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. I met her when we were both very young, as young as you are.
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