“I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. See paragraph 1. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. As he understood it, folks saw in two or three days all there was to see of Canton. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said.
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