“I’d never have a day of peace again, John. “In self-defence I had to,” she answered. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead.
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