“I wonder what you could do?” he said. Robbed of their prey, the fury of the mob became ungovernable. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. I knew it. Shoplatch. But I vowed that Ruth should never suffer the way I did—and do. Alors, one must steel oneself.
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