Get it off your soul. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. ‘No!’ Melusine snapped as he tugged at the thing. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. . The threadbare remainders of the dinner discussion hovered over the topics of obsessive fans of the science fiction and horror genres. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. I have no right to love you. She flew up the covered stairs and knocked upon his door. Mr.
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