Tales Of Corwin

Sandra was worried about Mark. He’d told her about Clare Tannerman. There had been a shuttered look about him—no telling what was going on behind his eyes, when they looked like that. Then he’d gone out to clear some snow. Two hours later, he was still at it, out in the bitter cold: snow blowing, shoveling, scraping; driveway, porch, steps, sidewalks. She’d left him to it, thinking that it might be one of those things he found therapeutic. But when, finally, she heard him come in, she went downstairs to find him sitting rigidly at the kitchen table, stripped down to his long underwear and his long-sleeved T-shirt, staring at his hands. His hands and face still looked red with cold, but his T-shirt was soaked with sweat. “Mark,” she said. “Are you okay?” “No,” he sighed. “You’re not blaming yourself about Mrs. Tannerman, are you? You did everything you could for her.” “No, I’m not blaming myself. Not really. If I’d gone there sooner—but who knows? I didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m just so damned depresse