Out of pills. She must have been desperate. That terrible night, with the scent of oranges all around her and nothing to which she could cling.
I would sell my children for a night’s sleep.
Then, under a pasted-in recipe clipped from a newspaper, in writing so small my old eyes needed a magnifying glass to make out the words:
T. L. came again. Said there had been a problem at La R'ep. Some soldiers got out of hand. Said R-C might have seen something. Brought pills.
Could those pills have been thirty high-dosage morphine tablets? For her silence? Or were the pills something else entirely?