Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. She’s got a great imagination. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. "Do you see any likeness?" "Don't I," returned Jack, bitterly. I tried to have it out with him, but he wouldn’t have it out. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. “I don’t think you can have heard me, Vee,” he said, with intensely controlled fury. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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