" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. But let the horses be in readiness. " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. He felt her observance and warmed to it. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. .
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