It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “It might be a policeman borrowing the driveway and looking out for speeders. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. What marriage really meant (aside from the idea of escape), Ruth had not the least conception, no more than a child. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall.
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