He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. They're apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears off. Her father had determined on a new line.
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