She had called the police on them anonymously. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. He patted the hand on his sleeve. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. ” He shook her hands off almost roughly. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes.
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