It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. She took up a book and threw it down again. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork.
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