By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. So he made merry at the dinner table, told comic stories, and was astonished at the readiness with which she grasped the comic side of life. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. . It was at breakfast on this day that he told Ruth he had sent to Batavia for some dresses.
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