Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said. "I don't deserve it," he said, at length; "but I would have risked a thousand deaths to enjoy this moment's happiness. ‘Is that a gesture of friendship?’ She stamped her foot. " "Not I," replied Jack; "I'm too comfortable where I am. Somewhere, where we can talk without interruption. Her anger died and she eyed him. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. . ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. And when they came to the gallows, Jack leaped out of the cart, and the hangman tied up Jonathan instead—ha! ha! How the mob shouted and huzzaed—and I shouted too—ha! ha! ha!" "Mother!" cried Jack, unable to endure this agonizing scene longer.
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