In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. " "Can't ve call for asshistanche?" "And who'll find us, if we do?" rejoined Wild, fiercely. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. "Something's wrong. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility.
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