Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. He seemed to have expected them. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. ‘Not in the open street. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. “You’re exactly as I remember you!” “Forever fifteen, remember?” She stepped closer to him into the light of the television screen. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon.
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