She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her. ‘Not yet, madame. Her head swam. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt.
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