But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Even if he were an old friend, you couldn't afford to do it. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it.
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