All day he effaced himself in the store, reserving for the evening, with his family, the privilege of being himself.
"I tell you that precious brother of yours was drunk." His voice was cold, sharp, and final, his lips stamping the enunciation of each word like the die of a machine.

His wife sighed and remained silent.

She was a large, stout woman, always dressed slatternly and always tired from the burdens of her flesh, her work, and her husband.
"He's got it in him, I tell you, from his father," Mr.Higginbotham went on accusingly.

"An' he'll croak in the gutter the same way.

You know that." She nodded, sighed, and went on stitching.