It isn’t illusions—for us. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. He did not like it. "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. I have—run away. Sheppard returned no answer. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him.
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