" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. That is not reasonable. And she’s pluck to the backbone. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. She had slapped him away with her free hand and the finger was released suddenly, sending her careening to the floor. CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought. "Your wife?" "His lawful wife," said Ruth, with fine dignity. Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other. I made the pies.
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