Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. The doctor turned quickly and made for the door, which he opened and shut gently because he was assured that Ruth was listening across the hall for any sign of violence. Then she went back and mixed up the sheets in a search for particular passages. “Yes, I know. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. No good at all.
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