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Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. The lantern was on the ground inside, ready. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. So he liked to go by a different train. ‘Gabbling and muttering in a foreign tongue, that’s what I heard, sir,’ had declared the gap-toothed ancient, when he told them of the initial foray he had made, sneaking around the house in the dark. . . This gloom was impossible. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman.
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