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Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow. He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. “No,” she answered, reluctantly. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents.
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