He had put himself before the threshold of damnation; for Ruth was now a vestal in the temple. I just wanted a breath of air. But come, sir. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him. “What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully. To be with you is the best moral tonic I know. ‘That’s not much comfort. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. The last piece was Scheherazade. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice.
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