So, forthwith, without any preliminaries beyond introductions, he began the ceremony; and shortly Ruth Enschede became Ruth Spurlock, for better or for worse. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. And Suzanne, even that she has behaved to me not at all like a mother, would also not have said.
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