“What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. And this utter stranger … loved him! He had no reason to doubt McClintock's statement; the Scot had solved the riddle why Ruth Enschede had married Howard Spurlock. Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…! On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. All her pride raged at me. Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression.
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