She looked at him mournfully. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. She worried for Cathy, working double shifts at the nearby family restaurant to help make ends meet. Beneath that tree let us lie. She proffered her neck towards him. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. The business of serving gave Gerald a few moment’s grace, for he was dubious about the effect on an elderly female, not in the best of health, of raking up old memories. You know what's what.
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