She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. He heard the woman talking again. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. You understand what I mean. I was raised in the Church.
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