167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it. Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. Even after this woman had gone, it seemed to Ruth that the room was kindlier than it had ever been. "Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek.
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