As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. Then it was the woman herself who was changed. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. This was in Texas. ” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. When Mr. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her.
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