Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. Once I banged on the door so hard I split it in two. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. That “entirely English” comment was said just to provoke me. "I read those stories.
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