It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. Ruth did not resent the use of her mind and body in this tale of adventure. What about your real mother? Wasn’t she also a foster child? Michelle told me that she was suspected of murder, some people named McFerrin, McDougal. Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess.
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