\"Want your pencil back?\" She asked him warily, squinting. She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. “He is quiet only this minute,” she said to the official. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. "Yes. I can’t do it even decently myself, and I dare not run the risk of ruining all my clothes. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. She was wan and white. She felt sickeningly empty. Waving a white flag, naturally.
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