The pain in Cathy and Shari Beck’s faces upset him the most, but the posters with a close up of her face they had put all over town made his heart ache more. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics.
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