It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often.
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