“That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. And her kind of love forgives everything and anything but infidelity. I love some one else. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. To be sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the first time she was made painfully conscious of it.
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