"Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. ‘Come inside at once, child. They are not your children, they never were. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug.
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