" The doctor ran his fingers through his hair, despairingly. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. "This letter will vouch for me that a communication has taken place between your enemies. She did not see Sebastian turn towards the boy and his family, but every hair on the back of her neck stood up rigidly. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. I—I hurt myself. Ah Cum patrolled the length of the boat innumerable times, but never letting his glance stray far from the gangplank.
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