"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. "They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. In fine, to marry Ruth (if she would consent) as a punishment for what he had done! To whip his soul so long as he lived, but to let his body go free! To provide for her, to work and dream for her, to be tender and thoughtful and loyal, to shelter and guard her, to become accountable to God for her future. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. One particularly humiliating thing came out— humiliating for me.
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