Morgan didn’t need to look. He knew every cobweb on the six cold kerosene lamps hung in a wrought-iron chandelier over the table. He had every mote of dust memorized. It was so thick on the floor and stairs that you could see the mouse tracks — except where she came down the stairs every day. She always came down the stairs in exactly the same way — with gentle grace, stolid dignity, and an air of gratitude for another day of life.
