‘Parbleu, but I find that this is excessively clever, this passage. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. She moaned as he buried himself completely to the hilt. Here he set down the lamp, and took out a key, and as he did so the expression of his countenance was so atrocious, that Jack felt assured he was not wrong in his suspicions.
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