There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. “There is no doubt whatever about that. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as good as my word. So was I, in fact. " He passed it over; and Ruth read: To be opened in case of my death and the letter inside forwarded to the address thereon. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense.
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