Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. True, on board the ships she had watched young men from afar, but only with that normal curiosity which is aroused in the presence of any new species. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. But some people have no consideration. A pig, yes, a little. "Not so," replied Jack, throwing down the skreen.
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