Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. His fellow-prisoners nicknamed him the gallows-provider, from a habit he had of picking out all those who were destined to the gibbet. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. "Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know.
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