She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it. ” “Then she has never been my wife.
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