And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct.
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