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. The poor child! What frightful things she must have seen on that island of hers! The noise of crashing glass caused a diversion; and Ruth turned gratefully toward the sound. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. I am sure that he can be got rid of. I'll knock off at tea. Anyone would be intrigued. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother.
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