She elected to go to prison. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. What marriage really meant (aside from the idea of escape), Ruth had not the least conception, no more than a child. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. "Well, my pretty dears," he added, "—to see your husband, eh? You must make the most of your time. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. I am a man—of a sort of experience. “It’s odd,” said Ann Veronica, re-entering the flat. She entered the kitchen. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity.
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