Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. ‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame. And for my part, if I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene. Torment! And so Ruth discovered him. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands.
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