73 < 10 > AT HOME, 1982 Lucy woke up the next morning with Shari’s slow sonorous breathing only a few feet away. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. ’ A radiant smile dawned. “What did it matter?” she cried.
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