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Show 34 creature of inexplicable mystery, lurking here in a fertile jungle of her own creation. He stops, struck: all that is gone now: the walls are bare, the surface of the desk uncluttered, and the vines have been pruned back to severely disciplined size. The room seems large, stark, empty. The telephone book is closed, and there are no messages or reminders taped to the handset; all that he sees of the familiar clutter are three small, framed pictures of their children: recent photographs of Roderick and Evan, an old one of Luel. Annis is sitting in her chair, wrapped in a plain white cotton dressing gown, but she says nothing. Robeck sees a thin book lying open on the table beside her; he walks toward her, picks it up, examines it. It is a collection of poetry, by a poet whose name he does not recognize. "Reading?" "No. Just thinking." "Is it all right with you if I come in?" "Yes." Robeck studies his hands, twisted together in a tight, nervous knot. He knows he is responsible for her distress. "I'm sorry," he says. "So am I." His eyes travel to the small framed picture on the desk; he cannot understand why she keeps of picture of the dead child among the live ones, as if nothing were changed. "You must be very disappointed," he says. She is silent a long time, as she always is when something earnestly troubles her. After a very long time, in which no transition or emotion can |