She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. After the sights he would have to twiddle his thumbs until the joints cracked. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. She flared her upper lip, baring her canines which had extended by half an inch. But all these hours, trying to teach the child wariness toward life, and the moment his back was turned, this! He was, perhaps, still dazed by the inner revelation—his own interest in Ruth. "You'll be as good as your word, my charmer," whispered the executioner. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones.
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