John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. His aunt, here at McClintock's? It was unbelievable. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. “My dear Anna,” he answered. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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