This—all this swamps them. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. Marvel, who, as he had helped to deprive her of her former husbands, thought himself in duty bound to offer to supply their place. Let her have her own way in all things, for she will always be just.
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