The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. Entranced, he stared at the name. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. “No, I am alone,” she answered. “Aren’t we all just odds and ends of humanity —the left-overs, you know. Sheppard, rushing from the adjoining room. My arm's nearly well again. She had not felt comfortable in his presence from the first, and with Leonardo’s precepts in mind, was loath to trust him. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. “Maybe we could swing a scholarship to Boston College for you, you know, with your violin and all. Yes—as he would have liked.
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