“I am. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. ‘Hadn’t meant you to know,’ said the nun gruffly. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters.
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