Her early life was anything but pleasant. She remembers her father molesting her, taking ill during The Plague of Gewidge, and being hacked down by the so-called “heroes” who she says raised her from the dead afterward only because they wanted the praise of pathetic, naive villagers. She is now well into her middle age, but has long been suffering from a peculiarly resilient form of leprousy and takes each day as bitter medicine, unsure of whether to be grateful to see another sunrise or seek an end to it all. She spends her days alone, locked in her room and reading by the window — a pariah. She knows the outside community would largely disagree with her perception of this quarantine as being self-imposed, but just so long as she doesn’t have to deal with… people … she feels content.
Sometimes, Ginny thinks of her mother, and of those happier times they spent traveling as missionaries together. Although Ginny is not terribly taken in by the message of the gospels, she doesn’t begrudge her mother the peace it has brought her. The letters they exchanged were infrequent, but still heartfelt.