He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. Vaguely she heard the distinctive sound of male voices as she saw Gosse dive towards the fateful pew. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. He thrust into her slowly at first, astonished at the natural amount of resistance and unexpected friction which nearly drove him to come instantaneously. There never is much left for me. “I want to be your friend,” he said. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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