She owed the nun a great deal, including her command of English, for no one else thought to ensure she could speak her mother tongue. Ennison spoke at last. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. “There is my aunt,” she said.
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