But to confess about Gerald— no, a thousand times. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. He will wish to have his fears laid to rest. They almost made me feel like they were mine. The next few hours will tell. . gutenberg.
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