‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. Suddenly she understood. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. The last piece was Scheherazade. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was.
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