\"Where are you going?\" She cried. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. There is no Heaven for your mother. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. ‘When you say it like this, certainly it appears absurd. . To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets.
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