He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. From there I plan to travel until I reach Columbia—but any lawless country will do. She was quite a beauty, all in white, and I can still see how much you resemble her. Somehow logic could not explain her. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore.
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