She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. “Now,” he said, quietly, “it’s time we stopped this nonsense. I felt his heart. ” “No! Well, I just suggested it. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway.
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