Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. He caressed her tenderly, with no trace of the Sebastian who had previously knocked her off her feet with a slap across the mouth. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. One doesn’t realize that even the sort of civilization one has at Morningside Park is held together with difficulty. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured.
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