CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. Scarcely any one noticed the full measure of her consternation. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. The knife is at my breast. Wood to a seat within it, immediately pushed from land.
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