” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. It was not until the morning of the fifth day that the constant vigil was broken. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers.
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