” He smiled bitterly as he handed her from the cab. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. It was not possible for him to have been deceived.
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