She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. “As a matter of fact, I deserve to. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. Her defence ceased rapidly to be in any sense ladylike, and became vigorous and effective; a strand of black hair that had escaped its hairpins came athwart Ramage’s eyes, and then the knuckles of a small but very hardly clinched fist had thrust itself with extreme effectiveness and painfulness under his jawbone and ear.
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