The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. "Ruth?" Silence for a moment. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. The one through which she had come and Gosse had entered behind her. It was a look that accorded very well with the hayloft setting that had come to mind.
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