It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. She could not help thinking of Capes. “I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn’t wait. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. "And yet, he has been spared thus long; perhaps with a wise purpose," rejoined Thames. After all, why should I care what strangers think?" Ruth asked with sudden heat. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat.
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