He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. He then spoke with a certain fatherly kindliness of the past. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself.
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