Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. Do you know, Ann Veronica, it is all a lie about your birth certificate; a forgery—and fooling at that. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl.
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