"I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. ” Lucy considered the irony that Michelle had spent seventeen years waiting to escape the suburban existence she had always longed to live. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. How will we get there, I’d like to know? We’ve no money. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. I don’t see how they can be.
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