In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. Perhaps for the first time he realized that Anna was by no means an ordinary person. 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. She struggled against it quite uselessly. I shall charge you five per cent. The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually.
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