"No, I don't. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. " "You believe it, father?" "From the bottom of my heart. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. . . ” Her hand hung over the side of her chair nearest to him.
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