In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. “Just do it. “Who, me? I scare you?” He asked. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. "That's a good story, lad. She is the image of what I was like, and she has a better voice. But I must—I ought—” “I MUST talk about this. ‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go. Flowers, theatre boxes, carriages, the “open sesame” to the whole world of pleasure. They knew they were all Bogey in disguise. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain.
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