Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Without a single ornament about her neck, or hair, wearing the plainest of black gowns, out of which her shoulders shone gleaming white, she was easily the most noticeable and the most distinguished-looking woman in the room. What else was there lurked in shadows and deep places; if in some mood of reverie it came out into the light, it was presently overwhelmed and hustled back again into hiding. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Because Leonardo, he made me see that I can be someone. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest.
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