He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. Don’t ask me how. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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