The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. From then on he was Ruth's dog. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. You really ought not to stay here and talk to us. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. Here we go, thought Gerald. Nevertheless, she was still fighting. ’ He stopped suddenly, dismay creeping into his face. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled.
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