“Anna!” she repeated. "Some one must have assisted him. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. You will be my witness, Madame Joan. No; she'd never go back. He laughed. Recovery impossible. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. 1 through 1. I am the cause of his ill-usage. How dreary it all looks. She returned to these latter, and at the back of her mind, as she looked them over again, was a very distinct resolve to quote them after the manner of Miss Garvice at the very first opportunity. He handed Ruth a letter.
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