Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. " "But why didn't you oppose him?" "I had to let him have his way, else he might not have returned safely. His hands came up, his face broke apart.
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