“He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands. My son went down after his death. She paused for a moment. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. One of her duties, after she had been taught to read, had been to read aloud after breakfast and before going to bed. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. I’ll drive you home once my buzz goes away. He talked with his manner gentle and kindly. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. I could not keep away any longer.
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