It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. At the Palazzo she had been confined to her own sunny windowed quarters most of the time, but she had the entire run of the inside of the manor. "Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album. He smiled tenderly. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. Nuns, I mean. In this state, it will be easy to draw him into a snare. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. "We shall meet again ere long, my son," cried Mrs.
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