He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. He had more time for her. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. ‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser. Come to take leave. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house.
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