You disgust me. I gather you wish to go up in some fantastic get-up, wrapped about in your opera cloak, and that after the festivities you propose to stay with these friends of yours, and without any older people in your party, at an hotel. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. "I couldn't bear to see you in it. Only of course I must begin something else at once. That blow made me a thief. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. I’m talking to you now as though you had all the wisdom and charity in the world.
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