He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. The coolies proceeded at a swinging, mincing trot, which gave to the suspended seat a dancing action similar to that of a suddenly agitated hangingspring of a birdcage. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. You must have figured that out by now.
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