If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. He has told me sufficient of you—" "My dear," interposed Wood, "for goodness' sake—" "I will speak," screamed his wife, totally disregarding the interruption; "I will tell this worthless creature what I know about her,—and what I think of her. “It’s either now or never,” said Ann Veronica, again ascending this stile.
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