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Out the opening she ca Two tiny, fluffy birds

‘There’s a crone,’ said Jeanne

‘Ruth Zardo,’ said Gaue

Jeanne turned to him, stunned

‘Ruth Zardo? The poet? She’s Ruth Zardo? Who wrote,

‘I didn’t feel the aio in like a soft bullet

I didn’t feel the s over it like water

over a thrown stone

‘That Ruth Zardo?’

Gamache smiled and nodded Jeanne had quoted froed Mary’

‘Oh, ’ Jeanne was alht she was dead’

‘Only parts of her,’ said Gaes’

‘She’s a legend in my circles’

‘Witches’ circles?’

‘Ruth Zardo That poeed Mary"? It’s about a real wo her up from a tree This was back in the witch-hunt days Late sixteen hundreds’

‘Here?’ Gamache asked He was a student of Quebec history and while he’d come across many odd and brutal events, none would match the witch-hunts

‘No, Massachusetts’ She was still staring at Ruth, though so was everyone else Ruth had progressed about a foot along the Cos, like vestiges, and going up on their little webbed feet ‘A woman,’ said Jeanne, almost in a dream

‘Ruth or Mary?’

‘Both, really Have you read her poeed for living alone,

for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,