The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. Promise me one thing before I leave you. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Enschede: no human emotion should ever again shuttle between him and God.
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