The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. The bridge was open. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. “Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared. On a sudden, a change came over her countenance, which, up to this moment, had worn a smiling and satisfied expression. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ‘Eh bien, does that mean that you will do it again?’ ‘Not if I can help it,’ Gerald uttered, alarmed. " CHAPTER V.
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