It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. “Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. I hate what I have to do to survive. "Look at him!" Ruth looked. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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