Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. It was a haunted place. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. He was not able to recognize, as the doctor did, that she was only a natural woman.
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