“I’ll be here at one in the morning. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. He had done his best, pitching with determined fury that resulted in two outs. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him.
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