For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. He stepped quickly towards her. One night she apparently fell asleep. She had even played in an opera by Verdi once, but had to dress as a boy to do it. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression.
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