Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Deep silences came between them. When she was done she checked the patio door and carried his body into the garage, burying his remains next to the ten year old girl he had raped and killed last autumn, whose bones were starting to show in small areas where the maggots had feasted. All this was the work of a minute. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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