The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. Look out, it’s coming. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration.
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