I want to love him. My wife—killed me. CHAPTER XVIII The doctor reached for the key and studied it sombrely. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. But all these hours, trying to teach the child wariness toward life, and the moment his back was turned, this! He was, perhaps, still dazed by the inner revelation—his own interest in Ruth. “They died within a few months of one another. The Goopes were the oddest little couple conceivable, following a fruitarian career upon an upper floor in Theobald’s Road. You mustn’t do things like that. He laid her on their old bed and kissed her from head to toe. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. Her father for fifteen years, and you now for the rest of her life! Tell her you're a thief. Always I have said I will take care of myself, and I have done so. "Don't fire," cried the latter.
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