As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. I'm a bit daffy about music. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder.
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