She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. It was as if he could smell it on her. ‘What in Hades d’ye mean, thanks to me? Want to blame anyone, blame that rapscallion who calls himself your father. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. The customary gold band was missing; but a soft gold Chinese ring Spurlock had picked up in Singapore—the characters representing good luck and prosperity—was slipped over Ruth's third finger. Shortly to be executed. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. The Red Room.
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