You might even tire of me by then, you know. Wily little devil she is. And after that Alice became remoter than ever, and, after a time, ill. "Women are always balling up and muddling clean cases. \" She whispered back. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth.
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