It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. ‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen.
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