He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. The business of serving gave Gerald a few moment’s grace, for he was dubious about the effect on an elderly female, not in the best of health, of raking up old memories. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony.
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