Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. “I am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes. She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. The day is already half over.
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