" Jack was about to comply with the request, when an unlooked-for interruption occurred. Her heels made contact with Rhea’s knees and hobbled her with a crack. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. ‘I must get a handkerchief. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty.
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