He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. “I’ll get a towel. She has no proof—yet. What passed between them I cannot think—I dare not. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. His manner was deferential, even eager. There was still in his heart that fierce anger which demands physical expression; but he had to consider Ruth in all phases. ” She looked at him wistfully, but with some unwilling doubt in her wrinkled forehead. She had been quite convinced that an engagement with him and at last a marriage had exactly that quality of compromise which distinguishes the ways of the wise. ‘It is nothing at all of the kind. Is that it? I thought this very pretty.
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