I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. Sleep did not come easily, but eventually her mind stopped its chattering and she fell into a deep slumber.
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