He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. ‘Aye, sir.
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