“I’m really very sorry. For a few minutes all was silent. "Do you want it back under the pillow?" "Hang it over a chair. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. It began as a joke. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Rhea commanded her. Then she shrugged. He seemed to do ten things before she could think to do one, to leap upon her and take possession. ‘You wish to tell me something? Parbleu, I have nearly forgot once more.
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