Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. ‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. She thought of Capes. When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. His eyes swept down and Melusine felt the quiver at her lips where he gazed. "For the sake of the girl. You’re all dependents—all of you.
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