And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring.
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