] CHAPTER VIII Slowly Ruth entered her own room. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. She told him the story of her parents, her marriage to Iovelli, the loss of her baby, the kidnapping after the miscarriage. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. She was clear there were no other minds like them in all the world. “Shhh.
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