It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ‘That’s my pet name. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. That is my way, my dear. It isn’t. The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. I've foiled him hitherto, and will foil him yet. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century.
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