Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. She had not been sufficiently prompted in relation to the ways of caravansaries; but her mind had been alert and receptive. How plainly he could see the patch of garden in the summer sunshine and the white hollyhocks nodding above the picket fence! ***** Ruth sat waiting for the half hour, subconsciously. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. I can't help looking at you frequently.
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