Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…! On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. He saw the flames burst from the windows, and perhaps in that maddening spectacle suffered torture equivalent to some of the crimes he had committed. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. He touched her breast as if he was testing the waters of a cold lake. I can bear anything but suspense. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. In the present case it did not matter, as there was no one else within earshot. .
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