It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. All at once she realised that Kimble had halted, leaning heavily against the wall. Then he paused. “What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely. She answered him almost coldly. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul.
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