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Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. Melusine cast one swift glance at it, and her eyes, flashing magnificently, came back to his face. "No; we never had one; at least, I never saw it. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. In the pause a door could be heard opening and closing on the landing up-stairs. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent.
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