“A poem begins as a lump in the throat. A sense of wrong,” Gamache continued the quote. “A homesickness, a lovesickness.” Ruth glared at him over the rim of her cut glass tumbler, one she’d found in the Gamaches’ home. “You know the quote,” she said, cupping the glass between two scrawny hands. “Not one of mine, as you know.” “Not even a poem,” said Gamache. “It’s from a letter Robert Frost wrote to a friend describing how he wrote.” “Your point?” “Is the same true for any work of art?” he asked. “A poem, a song, a book.” “A painting?” she asked, her rheumy eyes sharp, as though a barracuda
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