The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault. That’s— that’s my private life. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. ‘Um—begging your pardon, sir, but—um—what was you meaning to arrest the young lady for?’ ‘Trespassing, theft, and suspicion of spying,’ announced Roding fluently. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you.
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