“Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. "To shoot you would be to lose the reward. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. So they fenced with smiles.
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