The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. So he resolved to try another tack. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. He’s dead. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window.
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