" "Poor Jack!" exclaimed Thames. Some one may observe us. When she was done she checked the patio door and carried his body into the garage, burying his remains next to the ten year old girl he had raped and killed last autumn, whose bones were starting to show in small areas where the maggots had feasted. She backed away from him. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. He went on with intense urgency. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. I will take her away and make her serve me as my wife. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance.
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