CHAPTER TWOFour Is Too Many
“It wasn’t the first,” said Mrs. Gregson. “I’ve had one every year since they let me go.”
Gamadge made a note in his book, and then looked up at her. She was leaning back against a cushion of old-gold satin with brown velvet corners; it was a well-preserved relic, and it made an excellent background for her pallor and the fine black of her dress. She wore no ornaments. Her ringless hands lay clasped loosely on her lap, her feet in their exquisite shoes were crossed. Gamadge thought: “That’s where her calendar begins—‘since they let her go. She had travelled a fearful road, and now she was resting beside a milestone; hoping, perhaps, that she might not have to go on.’ ” Resting physically, at least; but who knew whether there was mental rest in stupor?
“So thi
