The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds. Then she slowly straightened, releasing him. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “Quite on my own,” she said.
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