"If you touch me I will kill you," said Ruth, grasping the scissors which lay beside the pencils—Hoddy's! The Wastrel laughed, still advancing. For she knew that men married to get something. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. “Now, Veronica,” he pleaded, “Veronica, this is most unreasonable. ‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him.
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