Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us. ” At the sight of her tears his expression changed to a mingling of triumph and concern. ” He said happily. ” He leaned back for his soup. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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