“What have you done with her—with the body, I mean?” she asked. “At the mortuary.” This seemed to bring home tragedy for the first time. “Oh, deary me.” She moved the end of her apron over a polished table, slowly. “And me making griddle cakes.” This was not a lament for wasted griddle cakes, but her salute to the strangeness of life. “I expect you’ll need breakfast,” she said to Tisdall, softened by her unconscious recognition of the fact that the best are but puppets.
