Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Once outside, she ran towards the playground, and the grotto, a miniature limestone version of the manor, which was in itself a miniature of a fortress. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. Melusine cursed herself for his injury. But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. She would just walk out of the house and go.
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