Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. It was a purse.
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