“Yes. I said to myself, ‘this will come. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. “That’s it,” she said. “My dear Anna! As though I should think of depressing you with my long list of misdeeds. Grudgingly he admired her. To-day he selected the girl, and gave her the lead-chair.
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