Clovis slept until midnight. Waking then, she had a severe chill and couldn’t stop herself from shaking until she drank a half glass of whiskey. Feeling gradually better, she built up the fire in the sitting room and drank slowly the rest of the night, as Clarence Anderson had done before her in the same room. The longer she drank and thought about things, the clearer they became. She found that her mind was really very quick and clever; it explained all of the past to her and showed her how one thing had led to another, until her whole life had been spun out based on nothing better than mistaken impulses of her youth. Still sitting in the chair, she slept again. Waking cold an hour or so later, she did not bother to resurrect the fire but went off to bed in her clothes, removing only her shoes, giggling as she wrapped the old shawl of Sarah’s around her feet to warm them.

When she woke again, it was midmorning, and she felt miserable. There was no more whiskey in her jug, and it was the last one she had. She had drunk it up too quickly. What she had meant to last two more days, the earliest time at which Roscoe might ride out and give her a little money, was gone, and she would have to shake and suffer. Do, God, she thought to herself. She went to the kitchen and was thankful Puddy was not there. She made herself eat a cold biscuit, although she felt that every bite she chewed and swallowed was like to choke her. There was a piece of leftover fried fatback, congealed in its own grease. She wiped the white lard off on her dress and bit into it. Its greasy saltiness almost made her vomit; and then contrarily, when she swallowed it, she felt better and steadier. She ate the rest of it with another cold biscuit. Puddy came in from the back yard, her arm heavy with a load of stove wood, and asked her if she wanted anything. She said no and went into the sitting room to get away from the woman and her curious, fearful stare.

She heard a horse then and wondered if Roscoe had come early. It had not rained for several days, and the earth of the front yard had hardened so that the horse’s hoofs sounded as loud as they would have on a baked clay road. She went to the window and saw that it was Leon Kendrick, and that he had stopped at the same spot he had on the two earlier occasions he had come. Without thinking how she looked, and she looked like a crazed witch, she stepped out on the porch.

Seeing her, Leon nodded his head. “Clovis,” he said, as easily as he might have pronounced the name of any casual acquaintance he greeted at train depot or post office.