At the foot of the stairs by the street door, Niels Heinrich saw the
figure of Ruth Hofmann. She was waiting for her brother, who had gone
across the street to buy bread. The lad limped a little, and Ruth had
never been able to fight off the fear that he would be run over.
She looked at the pavement, glittering under the street lamps, at the
light of other lamps in the many windows, and finally higher, where
she was accustomed to see the stars, but where now there was only the
confused and reddish glow of clouds.
Niels Heinrich stopped. Ruth looked up at him with her large grey
eyes. He took in all details of the little figure--the thick hair with
its curling ends, the shabby flannel dress, the soiled, worn shoes,
and last of all the clear, pale face flooded with an alien spiritual
life. His glance clung savagely to her, and ripped the garments from
her body. The girl, shuddering as she had never done before, chilled
to the marrow by an unknown force, turned away toward the stairs, and
hesitantly began to mount them.
Niels Heinrich looked after her. “Jew wench!” he murmured from clenched
teeth. A greeting from the home-coming Gisevius awakened him from his
thoughts. He lit a cigar, pushed the blue cap down toward the nape of
his neck, and slouched down the street.