He had taken it back. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. I see all the Movements. Her moods were many and always striking. They went to the Zoological Gardens together one Saturday to see for themselves a point of morphological interest about the toucan’s bill—that friendly and entertaining bird—and they spent the rest of the afternoon walking about and elaborating in general terms this theme and the superiority of intellectual fellowship to all merely passionate relationships. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly.
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