Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. She realized that with a pang of disgust and horror. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. " "That's not my game. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. I keep it for my own drinking," he added in a lower tone. ’ She shook her head.
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