She will not confide in me. ‘What was you wanting it for, may I ask?’ ‘You may not ask, for it is none of your affair,’ Melusine snapped. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. There was still in his heart that fierce anger which demands physical expression; but he had to consider Ruth in all phases. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. .
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