“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. “Go on,” he said. Torment! And so Ruth discovered him.
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