It was Ennison who for the rest of his visit was quiet and subdued. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. Meanwhile, the excitement of the chase had in some degree subsided. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child.
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