At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else.
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