So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. Suspicion was in his face. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd.
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