Chapter Twenty-TwoAchille went back inside the house and paced around the kitchen. He made a fist and put it to his mouth, chewing on a knuckle.
This is bad, he kept thinking, over and over. Bad.
That redheaded woman was a chatterbox, anyone could see that. She was going to go into the village and say things about him. She probably hadn’t wasted a minute, was talking about him right now! Sitting at a bar in a crowd of people, going on and on about his farm and everything she had seen and heard.
She would tell people something was wrong with him. He knew how it went. He saw how she looked, how she stared.
Achille paced and paced. He thought about her standing there, looking at him, holding that notebook. That was where she wrote everything down. All of her judgments, her diagnoses, ever
