The business of serving gave Gerald a few moment’s grace, for he was dubious about the effect on an elderly female, not in the best of health, of raking up old memories. There are two ways to go in, you understand. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. A door slammed. “I murder people, John. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn. One day they were at tea in the laboratory and a discussion sprang up about the question of women’s suffrage. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside.
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