Lucy tried not to make her cringe noticeable. “Have either of you been out of this room since you discovered what had happened?” he asked. She changed into a halter top and a pair of tight jeans herself, and let Lucy brush her long, glossy hair as they talked about mascara, schoolwork, and boys. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something.
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