But she was relentless. Some had the dignity and the aloofness of a rock in the sea; and others were as the polished pebbles on the sands—one saw the difference of pebble from pebble only by close scrutiny. “In Paris. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. On the second day out he was helped to a steamer-chair on deck; on the third day, his arm across Ruth's shoulder, he walked from his chair to the foremast and back.
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