"I am Owen Wood, at your service. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth as she recalled Gerald’s ridiculous upbraiding of his own reflection in the mirror. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. He hadn't played fair. “This is wonderful! I’ve been feeling that you had vanished from my world. ’ Gerald laughed. . " Then he looked at Ruth. It’s these damned novels. And the less “anything” happened the better. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say. ’ ‘She is no longer a mystery,’ Gerald said.
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