"Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's.
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