She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. Lucy's ears were singing. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. She moaned as she touched him. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said.
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