Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. ’ Which effectually silenced her. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. The face that looked down upon Ann Veronica was full of amiable intention. Yet every now and then, during the progress of the meal, his attention apparently wandered, and leaning forward he glanced covertly at Anna with a curious mixture of expressions on his face. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his.
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