The father was a madman. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. Sheppard. "I am your most unhappy son. 1.
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