But whatever she may have said was lost as Gerald pinned her to the wall, the point of the sword at her throat. She gloried in it: he needed her. One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her.
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