As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. Melusine’s eyes shifted. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. They weren’t very chummy with one another but Sheila 113 didn’t expect much from a foster daughter as long as she worked hard, very hard, to earn her keep. Saint Giles's Round-house XIII.
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