The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. It must be sent home this evening. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. ’ She thrust him into the aperture, and pushed the hilt of the sword into his hand. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. She wanted to think. He had an objective now. She came to adore them. Here was a thundering blow. The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. Then, presto! What a dreary lot they are when the revellers lay aside the motley! Ruth had come from a far South Sea isle.
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