As usual in the evening, Ramona Laughing sits on a stool at the bar’s end farthest from the door and stares at her hands, spread out before her on the bar-top. They are small hands, like her grandmother’s, but useless: good only to excite a man. Ramona’s glass is neglected, half-filled with warming beer. The bar as yet is quiet; it will fill up later, and Ramona may or may not notice: she also is quiet tonight. Some nights she may be feverish in her conviviality, and other sullen, almost murderous in her silence. She once stabbed a man, though not seriously, and it is widely agreed that he should have known better.