’ ‘Comment? You wish to murder me?’ ‘No, I wish to beat you,’ he retorted. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Jonathan, though a very powerful man, was like an infant in his gripe. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence.
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