She addressed him in a tone of puzzlement. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. "Your son," answered the boy. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. ” She answered.
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