It’s only as if I’d begun to know you the day before yesterday or there-abouts. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. ‘It needs not that you tell me. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. My work will be all sufficient.
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