For a time she promenaded the room. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. She ran through the backyards of Pinecrest subdivision, piano wire and a slim jim tucked into her pantyhose. It was drafty and cold most of the time, but she found that she was not nearly as sensitive to the cold as long as he was 99 there to warm her up. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike.
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