No one will ever love you as I love you now. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. “But I am your husband,” he said. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves. Just then—I was nervous. In the struggle the pistol went off, but without damage to either party. Besides, I would tear out my tongue rather than let it speak her mother's infamy. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. As a matter of fact, I had never spoken to him before in my life. Lots of us are like that.
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