Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. She was in a very uncritical state that afternoon. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. She knew that the next time he caught her she would not be able to free herself. “I will be off,” she declared. They sat down at the dining room table which seemed empty and 259 huge in the stark, white-walled room. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls.
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