Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. They put her down, and she leaped at them; she smote a helmet to the ground. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. He watched her orgasm come to life and he could hold back no longer. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle.
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