The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. But he reckoned without his host. “You shall,” she said. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp.
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