“The rest,” she said, holding tightly to his hands, “is the most important of all. I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well. ” He looked at her, his eyes illuminated by the glow of the dashboard. He noted an ebony cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him. No good at all. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. We may be stopped.
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