"I'll be his evil genius!" vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her torture. And the sergeant, having carried out all Melusine’s instructions as if they had come out of his own head, went up to check on his patient, apparently at last convinced that his prisoner would not attempt to run away. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. It was nothing like the big church wedding she wanted, but nothing could shame her greater than to have a child out of wedlock. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. .
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