“In the end,” it seemed to be thinking, “they embalmed me with the utmost respect—sound spices chosen to endure—the best! I took my world as I found it. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. There were probably others buried around the 13 house, she had seen a suspicious working refrigerator in the back of the garage mess, but she wasn’t about to check it out. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. “Get out of the car.
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