Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. Her hair was held back in a filigreed barrette. But his daughter might well have a claim. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. She turned her eyes to him again, and saw her late friend and pleasant and trusted companion, who had seen fit suddenly to change into a lover, babbling interesting inacceptable things. She calmed herself, breathing deeply. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. He would know the truth then once and for all.
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