‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, even I knew anything, which I don’t. I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. They’ve just got to keep white. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. “I am under police surveillance,” she said. So Ruth returned to her room and sorted the books and magazines the doctor had loaned her, inspected the titles and searched for pictures. There were so many things about her which he could not understand. He said nothing, even though it was not raining.
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