Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. "What in the world is it?" he asked. John Sheppard. Frequently he would take up a box of talc and send a shower down his back, or fill his palms with the powder and rub his face and arms and hands. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine.
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