He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. “Here goes for the new life!” “Here goes for the new life,” he echoed and stood up. His room was last at the end of one winding corner. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. “Suppose, for example, I go to this dance?” “You won’t.
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