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“It was poison—why not?” she answered. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. “To be frank with you, Lady Lescelles, when your brother asked me the other day to be his wife I was under a false impression as regards his relations—with some other person. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. Simply because they are hardened by—by bestiality, and poisoned by the juices of meat slain in anger and fermented drinks—fancy! drinks that have been swarmed in by thousands and thousands of horrible little bacteria!” “It’s yeast,” said Ann Veronica—“a vegetable. Sheppard. Sheppard. “Very well,” said her father. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression.
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