Believe me, Anna. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. Her senses were prickled when she felt a new pair of eyes upon her. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. "Stow it, Nab!" exclaimed Quilt, angrily; "the kinchen's awake. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her.
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