To die intestate was unforgiveably irresponsible. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. She was carefree. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head.
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