In some incomprehensible way that back view made her feel sorry for Alice. But I know very well that that word will never be spoken. Jack is registered in the Black Book. He was bewildered. Too intent on her search, and convinced besides that she was quite alone, she had been an easy prey. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “It was inevitable,” he declared. Free! All the fine ecstasy, without the numbing terror. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Probably he will come around to-morrow and begin all over again. She resolved to walk across the Park to the Zoological gardens, and so on by way of Primrose Hill to Hampstead Heath.
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