She wanted to turn him. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe.
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