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Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. “What did you say?” “Well, I considered myself justified in denying it,” Anna answered drily. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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