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. “Please let me drive you home. Gossip was the driving force in Sheila’s existence. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. “Not a bit. ” She said. ” “It is,” he replied, “the one humiliation of my life. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done.
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