At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Griffin, who held the same office in Westminster Gatehouse were left in the Lodge. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. . "Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began.
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