On these were thrown all the horrible contents of Jonathan's museum, together with the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. But recently he had asked God to pile it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for Ruth. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right.
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