"What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact.
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