. Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. .
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