Hettie Macomb, who's eyes are red and puffy, and whose handkerchief is wrinkled and damp, sniffles profoundly again. "I swear that woman's got the worst luck of any pretty gal I ever did see. You know about her first husband, don't you, Josephine? That Jaime MacClaine. He was a fine lookin' fella, that's for sure. Had him a temper too. Some folk say he wasn't on the up and up, but I don't hold with that. Someone gunned him down, though. Left that pretty little thing a widow, and us without a mayor.
"And then she had that poor little boy. Don't go rolling your eyes at me. You know none of them rumors about him is true. He's a sweet faced little thing, and it ain't his fault he's got that bad foot. Still, it's a burden on her, I'd imagine.
"And now," Hettie says, and sniffles again, dabs her eyes and honks into her 'kerchief. "Now someone done widowed her again, Josephine. Right in broad daylight, right in cold blood and all. Some folk say it was Death himself, come and mowed the Mayor down. Rode into town on a big black horse and rode out again, hell bent for leather. I donno 'bout that, but I know one thing for sure.
"Evan Randolph done gone to meet his maker, mowed down in the street right in front of his wife and child. God have mercy on his soul. God have mercy on us."
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