She wanders to and fro, picking and turning over like a well-dressed rag lady. She wonders if Hunter did this. She was aware of her environment. She cared about it. She was the centre of something here, so yes, she must have. She walked these paving stones, saw these things: Hunter, who wrote angry letters and disliked the spontaneous nighttime gatherings of bored local youth on the benches opposite her house. The same Hunter who loaned those same disaffected kids books and probably made them meals. Is that a contradiction? Or a deception? Or is it just people? People are inconstant.