She says to be home by one AM. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. Both had lived rather quietly until a scandal had opened up a can of worms for the son, allegations of child abduction, reported sightings of a white van around nearby elementary schools. The imbecile. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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