“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. In a moment they were in the street outside. I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. Mac, she's the honestest human being I ever saw or heard of; and at the same time she is velvet over steel. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. Whenever ecstasy— any kind of ecstasy—filled her heart to bursting, these physical expressions eased the pressure. Ruth loved him.
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