Why in the name of heaven couldn't he have a Ruth who was like her?
A Ruth who was a Louise, with all of her lovable qualities and splendid courage and fine nobility of heart?
He swung about to gaze at her.

She yet sat half turned in her seat so that her clear profile was before his eyes.

Her soft chestnut hair glinted with gleams of the fire that escaped through a crack in the door.

Her features were in repose.

Something in her attitude, in her face, gave her a girlish appearance, as she might have looked when sixteen--an infinite candor, an innocence and simplicity, that alone comes from a serene spirit.
Presently he discovered that she had moved her head about, that she was looking straight at him.