Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. We’ll have some buttered toast. But one must disguise oneself. The moment he was out in the hall, Ruth sat up hugging and rocking her body in delight. She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall.
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