Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject.
Abruptly would come the end.

It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble facade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door--nothing.
She did not realize that she was offering criticisms.

The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise." Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales.

She could not explain in words why they disappointed her or that she was disappointed.
Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation.

At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour.
"My coat!" Ruth did not move but stared astonishedly at the patient.
"My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers.
[Illustration: _Distinctive Pictures Corporation.