Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. The knife is at my breast. “—but this cannot be. Here was an instrument which might be of the greatest service to him in accomplishing his design. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. He hated the taste of it. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative.
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