As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. I’m not half smart enough for the West End. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. ‘Alors, I see it.
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