"Who? Jack!" exclaimed Jonathan. The door was then locked, and he was left alone. And this utter stranger … loved him! He had no reason to doubt McClintock's statement; the Scot had solved the riddle why Ruth Enschede had married Howard Spurlock. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. Get nothing out of me. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. I would have liked to know.
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