He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. An old woman took her in. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. I mean that it doesn’t interest you in itself. “What else was I to do?” For some seconds she stood watching him and both were thinking very quickly. He laughed lightly.
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