Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. Had she expected to wed Valade herself? Had the fellow broken a vow of betrothal, or abandoned her? He must find out more. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. He was beautiful despite the odd angle. The problem had returned, made gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love.
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