His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. "You see?" Ruth said. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers’ had yielded very disappointingly. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. You had better go to bed.
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