For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. It was bare of any furnishings. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before.
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