She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. Of all the amazing coincidences. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. “I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. You were afraid of me, afraid that I should have been shocked, afraid of the scandal. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh.
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