So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. ‘Hates doing the pretty. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. 70 <9> A MARRIAGE, PART II She dreamt of the inn they had stopped at after her suicide attempt, the flea-ridden hostel her husband had angrily toted her to after the incident at the country house.
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