“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. " "No—no," laughed Jack. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. "Here, take this and get the letter and open and read it.
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