She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. ‘That,’ he said stonily, ‘is yet another point over which we fell out. "But I can guess what it's for. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. “DON’T!” she said, and wrenched her wrist from his retaining hand. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. Of a certainty, she also was imbecile.
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