"We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. Gosse sneered. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. Of course this thing was absolutely impossible. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Fifty in advance.
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