Every person in that room heard it.
“My daughter and my grandchild will not think about money again as long as they live.”
And then he turned about four inches and looked at Reeve Hale for the first time.
“As for you. By the end of this quarter there will not be anything left of you to talk about.”
And my husband went backward about a foot and caught the end of a bench with the back of his legs.
“Mr Marrow — I think there’s been a mistake. Anwen’s an orphan. She was raised by the state. She hasn’t got anybody—”
And a woman in her fifties came up that aisle behind him with a folder under her arm, and put it down flat on the table in front of my husband, and stepped back.
Dark red. About four inches thick. With four words on the front of it in gold.
