She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. I can be a gentleman. Habits and tastes are no longer the same. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly.
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