Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. ‘But the fact remains that you should not have enjoyed it, you were quite right to threaten to kill me, and I— God help me!—should not have kissed you at all. Fast. I am tired, and I want to be alone. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. "Whatever you say—you, behind those stars there, if you are a God. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible.
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