He could not kiss Ruth. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. Michelle tossed her hair like a young colt flicking its tail. One mistress enough to ruin a man,—two, the devil. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. He sent me home. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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