The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. Not that there had ever been any hope of that.
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