When she reflected that Mr. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. “Really, I do not know why I should have doubted it.
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