A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. ‘Until today. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ” “You’re lucky to live in an age when you can do so. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. “No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued.
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