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. “Number 13, please, cabman. Seeming to feel that this statement called for explanation, he added, ‘I been working for the sisters six month, see. Brewis had told him the Valade family had been victim to wholesale murder, and a twinge of compassion had wrung even his deliberately hardened heart. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. Of course I ought to have some lights over the saloon; but by leaving all the cabin doors open in the daytime, there's plenty of daylight.
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