Perhaps, Ruth thought, because evil really was, in the words of Auden, unspectacular and always human. “And shares our bed,” she murmured. “And eats at our own table.” Gamache, who was beside her, turned slightly to the old poet. “And we are introduced to Goodness every day,” he whispered back. “Even in drawing-rooms among a crowd of faults.” She held his steady gaze while conversation flowed around and past them. “Do you know how it ends?” she asked quietly “This?” he whispered, nodding toward Gélinas. “No, the poem, you moron.” He grimaced and thought for a moment. “It is the Evil that is
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