In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. Joan told me it was hung somewhere in the house, only I couldn’t remember where after all this time. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father.
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