The Vorsack house bore the stamp of Diane in every visible spot. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. I’ve been smoking cigarettes in the preparation-room and thinking this out. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. Wild on his guard against an assassin. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them.
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