They had cried a little, both. Larry fell off the truck the Wednesday night before she planned on leaving. Spurlock slept on. “Do something!” But he laid by his prey, half-watching the fight, gorging on the woman he had caught that had been meant for Rhea and her child. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. “Your little flag of pride must flutter down with the rest of them, Ann Veronica.
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