Of course Ruth was not aware that in this same volume there were lyrics known the world over. ’ The pathetic sob which accompanied the last word had a signal effect on two of the company at least. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack.
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