All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. It had been a very long time.
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