They showered together. But in a moment she believed she understood. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. “That’s a weird name. "You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. "To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper.
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