For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. “What did it matter?” she cried. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. “Please come by.
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