For a time she furnished the flat. Her new husband had paid for a cadre of escorts back to Mantua. ‘You are outrageous. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Without preamble, in a voice of extreme exasperation, he demanded, ‘Now what the devil’s to do? What in God’s name do you mean by sending Gerald such a ridiculous letter? Never read anything half as crazy. ‘Wait! No time for that. She was ushered into the back of the squad car. She changed her mind that day, as her mother Marina had predicted. She lost it in the Mint. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. For two years he thought himself secure; and, secretly engaged in the Jacobite schemes of the time, in which, also, Sir Cecil was deeply involved, he began to relax in his watchfulness over Aliva. "What!" she exclaimed, almost choked with passion,—"I advised you to burthen yourself with that idle and good-for-nothing pauper, who'm you ought rather to send to the workhouse than maintain at your own expense, did I! I advised you to take him as an apprentice; and, so far from getting the regular fee with him, to give him a salary? I advised you to feed him, and clothe him, and treat him like his betters; to put up with his insolence, and wink at his faults? I counselled all this, I suppose. He knew she was out there, he could feel it. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse.
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