Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Something, I'm convinced, has happened to the boys. So Ruth returned to her room and sorted the books and magazines the doctor had loaned her, inspected the titles and searched for pictures. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. She felt he would tell people the way, control traffic, and refuse admission to public buildings with invincible correctness and the very finest explicit feelings possible. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt.
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