Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. "Yes … but dreadfully tired. This was what he missed. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘Let her go.
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