As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. 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. And―and he wanted to help you. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia.
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