" The feminine vanities in Ruth were quiescent; nothing had ever occurred in her life to tingle them into action. Wild had escaped. It was grated and crested with spikes, like that he had just burst open, and thinking it a needless waste of time to force it, he broke off one of the spikes, which he carried with him for further purposes, and then climbed over it. “I’m so glad you’re here, Peter,” she said. Like a petulant child he snapped. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia.
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