“Find whut? Whut you talkin about?”
“The note. At least she would have enough consideration to leave a note. Even Quentin did that.”
“Whut you talkin about?” Dilsey said, “Dont you know she all right? I bet she be walkin right in dis do’ befo dark.”
“Fiddlesticks,” Mrs. Compson said, “It’s in the blood. Like uncle, like niece. Or mother. I dont know which would be worse. I dont seem to care.”
“Whut you keep on talkin that way fur?” Dilsey said. “Whut she want to do anything like that fur?”
“I dont know. What reason did Quentin have? Under God’s heaven what reason did he have? It cant be simply to flout and hurt me. Whoever God is, He would not permit that. I’m a lady. You might not believe that from my offspring, but I am.”
“You des wait en see,” Dilsey said. “She be here by night, right dar in her bed.” Mrs. Compson said nothing. The camphor-soaked cloth lay upon her brow. The black robe lay across the foot of the bed. Dilsey stood with her hand on the door knob.
“Well,” Mrs. Compson said. “What do you want? Are you going to fix some dinner for Jason and Benjamin, or not?”
“Jason aint come yit,” Dilsey said. “I gwine fix somethin. You sho you dont want nothin? Yo bottle still hot enough?”
“You might hand me my Bible.”