‘I have Joan to tell me how much I look like Mary. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. ’ ‘Sport!’ grumbled her betrothed, but he accompanied them across the ballroom all the same. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. My father died a year ago, by the way.
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