He handed Ruth a letter. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave. ‘Or flew in by balloon, perhaps. I haven't touched the other.
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