Charvill’s fury was burning out. He hesitated. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. The job is easy. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. He was tall and straight, and his expression was good. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. “Our business here is the right way. "You mean you were just sorry for him?" "As I would be for any human being in pain.
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