The night before they made McClintock's Ruth and Spurlock leaned over the rail, their shoulders touching. "Because you did not wish to hurt me?" "Yes. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. "It's very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes'-bag. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic.
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