It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just perceive the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the darkness, and rendered indistinctly visible by the many lights that twinkled from the windows of the lofty houses. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. "I wonder," said Ruth. " Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be said to be littered, which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor and filth.
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