Chapter ThirtySeated at the desk in her apartment, Ruth glanced at the darkening sky then reached over and closed the blackout curtains. “Still early, but no need to risk a warning from the ARP warden.”
On the muted radio, Lena Horne sang “Stormy Weather.” From the coffee table, a sweet fragrance emanated from Varis’s bouquet.
As Ruth studied her research notes, she underlined information she would use and crossed out points that didn’t fit. Half an hour later, she rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter and banged out several paragraphs. Minutes passed. The keys clattered on the roller.
Back aching, Ruth dropped her hands into her lap and scanned the words she had written. She frowned and ripped the page from the machine then wadded it into a ball before hurling it across the room.
