She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. From then on he was Ruth's dog. Earles with composure into the inner room. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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