He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were now. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. Now let us forget it. Marina gently passed the swaddled infant to his mother, who sat down on the bed proudly to nurse the baby, extracting a fat breast from her heavy gown. All his dreams shattered in an instant.
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