" In the living room Spurlock's glance was constantly drawn toward Ruth; but in fear that she might sense something wrong, he walked over to the piano and struck a few chords. We were only—les autres. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong torrent. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. “In the bathroom. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. This time there wasn't any doubt. ” She saw him flinch, but he gave no sign of it in his tone. She could even think of what had happened. But he did not follow on with the thought.
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