She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters. There was just time for the girl to raise her arm to chest height and draw it back before Roding seized her. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. “I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. Sheppard, distractedly. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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