“Dear John,” she whispered. . An old woman took her in. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. It hadn’t even been called Kentucky back then when the Shawnee still hunted deer over mossy hills and the smoke from their fires could still inspire terror. Then he put the paper by. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. ’ ‘Probably not. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. .
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