She breathed deeply. “Show me around you house, John. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. I do not wish to blow off a head, you understand. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it. Farewell. Courtlaw.
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