She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. She heard the sounds of Rhea scuttling about, and then feeding, brutally. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. But as the mystery which surrounded Ruth fell away that which enveloped her father thickened. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her.
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