” “Then there is also,” Anna remarked, “a Montague Hill who is very much alive. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. I wrenched this off, and in an envelope addressed to me in faded ink, I found the locket and the pearls. It is we who have become the parasites and toys. Say that I will call again or let him know my address in London. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. She was the type that people of every age gravitated to, naturally affable and kind to everyone. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years. They litter up the room.
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