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He has no imagination, no real generosity. I have since received a most extraordinary letter from her. She put her head out of the window. Nothing seemed to be amiss. It is different. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. With thinly veiled glee, Michelle described a rumor she had heard about John at a recent party. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. But at the word “home” she turned again. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs.
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