Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. His hand rested heavily and cruelly upon Ruth's shoulder. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. While he was thus standing, the flames of his house, which made the whole street as light as day, and ruddily illumined the faces of the mob below, betrayed him to them, and he was speedily driven from his position by a shower of stones and other missiles.
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