For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. Happen what might, he could not be in a worse position. ‘I do not know your Gérard. 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.
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