"Cyprian, don't. Haven't the years taught you compassion?"
He shrugged that view away.
"What compassion is possible, or even right and decent?"
"You may feel inclined to shun a leper but, surely, you would desire to help him, too?"
She surprised him.
"What makes you think of it that way?"
"Experience," said Ferlie, so low that he hardly caught the word.
She braced herself for explanation.
"You once met a woman called Ruth Levine." She went on without heeding his start of acquiescence. "She has been very good to Muriel Vane. Muriel's people separated; then her mother died. Her father took to drugs, or something; they were a queer family, degenerating, like—like so many. And Muriel developed into—what people said. Ruth thought she had foreseen it and might have done something to prevent it happening. I should have imagined that impossible; often it is caused by heredity insanity. Anyhow, she saved Muriel from the usual kind of 'Home.' It is always the woman, Ruth says, who is judged; men so affected can often live undetected or screened from public criticism.... Ruth knew Clifford before I married him and when I concluded that, for John's sake—if only for that—there must be a complete break between Clifford and myself, she came to ask me to get divorced, as she had cared for him first. She was quite matter-of-fact about it. I told her that I could not dream of using the evidence she offered to supply. I told her that Clifford and I had privately arranged to live apart but that I was a Catholic and it was not in my power to unsay vows once spoken. I told her that I did not think she understood why Clifford ought to be in other hands than those of women. She looked at me as if I were crazy and went away.... I—I don't know any more, Cyprian."
Ferlie's voice had almost vanished. Suddenly her head went down upon her knees and her body shook with dry sobbing.