Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. ‘Believe it or not, I do it for pleasure. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. Tears flowed in rivulets down 121 her cheeks and she began to cry. Horrible doubts assailed her. He held in his hands many threads. That wasn’t even the worst thing. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! III.
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