Martin’s parents looked at each other in embarrassed, silent communication. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. He too looked at the girl, slackened his pace and looked at her again through his eye-glasses, looked over his shoulder after he had passed, and finally came to a dead stop. The last observation, however, caught the attention of the carpenter's wife. At this juncture, the door was opened by Rachel. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind.
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