“May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. That added to his puzzle. ’ ‘It’s too late for that,’ Gerald told her evenly. " "For shame, Mr. You have not forgotten——” “I have forgotten nothing?” he answered, enigmatically. They crossed the street, and entering the front door passed up the outside stone steps of the flat. “You decline to help us in any way, then,” he said.
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