Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. The only mercy you can show me is to kill me. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing. The mode of destruction makes no difference.
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