“You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. ” “What’s our lot?” asked her sister. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. Her anger parlayed with her confusion, as she realized that the new marriage was about as optional as the first one and her hunger was growing inside her like a weed.
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