Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. And he had good reason before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance. He did not have to. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. "What have you got there in your breast—a stone? Is there blood or water in your veins?" The dam broke, but not with violence. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. Maybe it’s his loss. Completely overcome by fatigue, with strained muscles, and bruised hands; streaming with perspiration, and with lips so parched that he would gladly have parted with a treasure if he had possessed it for a draught of water; he sank against the wall, and while in this state was seized with, a sudden and strange alarm. It had been easy to steal.
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