That she remained dismal under circumstances that seemed to me not to warrant it was a detail of minor consequence.

Terry Sullivan had been no good husband to her.

Beating her and the lesser Sullivans had been his serious aim when in liquor and his diversion when out.

But he fell from a gracious scaffolding with a.

bucket of azure paint one day and fractured his stout neck, a thing which in the general opinion of Little Arcady Heaven had meant to be consummated under more formal auspices.
But when they took Terry home and laid him on her bed, she had wailed absurdly for the lost lover in him.