So, adroitly and patiently, he pulled Ruth apart; that is, he plucked forth a little secret here, another there, until he had quite a substantial array. “Very well,” said her father. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. Her patience was waning fast. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. If you’ll forgive my saying that, and implying what goes with it. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver.
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