She cried out with the pain of it. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. "His shin may need rubbing. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. It would be swindling. ‘You talk together of me as if I am not there. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. " The Wastrel laughed.
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