While he was thus occupied, Thames, prompted by an unaccountable feeling of curiosity, took up the penknife which the other had just used, and examined the haft. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. Wood, terrified by the wildness of her looks. People were passing in the street below. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. The noise was raucous. He dropped the key on the counterpane.
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