Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. As pretty as its owner. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. When she came to school on Friday, she almost tripped twice going up the stairs. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love.
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