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. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. Listen to me, Winifred. ‘Because I love you. ” He said flaccidly. His shouts for help were answered by roars of mockery and laughter.
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