“Poor little Miniver! What can she be but what she is?. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. A silver necklace enhanced the dusky beauty of her neck. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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