The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. I would not have him know—now—for the world. “You will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no secrets from him except—concerning those things which are past?” “Anna, I swear it!” her sister sobbed.
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