The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. “I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister. It was at breakfast on this day that he told Ruth he had sent to Batavia for some dresses. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. He glanced at the ruins of his High Priestess. Or mad, just as the captain had said so many times. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face.
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