“Only you are the woman I love, and you are in trouble. The boat was set free, and the men resumed their seats. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. The boy had all kinds of opportunity; but it's the old story of father making it too easy. I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that. I have never spoken of these things to any human being. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. That ring manifestly occupied her thoughts a great deal.
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