I miss her a lot. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. I defy you to explain it away. He opened the drawer of the writing table. The biological laboratory, perpetually viewing life as pairing and breeding and selection, and again pairing and breeding, seemed only a translated generalization of that assertion. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. She pulled, he rose to his feet.
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