After a while he spoke again. Only the strong survived. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. 207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. Lord, I am sixty. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. “Anyway, enough about that. A thin line of red appeared in the white neck. At last he took up his thoughts again: “I wonder if, some day, one won’t need to rebel against customs and laws? If this discord will have gone? Some day, perhaps—who knows?—the old won’t coddle and hamper the young, and the young won’t need to fly in the faces of the old.
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