Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page. Indeed I must. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. 175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal.
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