Unit 1: Telling Details: "Lamb to the Slaughter" by Roald Dahl (full text)

The drop of the head as she bent over her sewing was curiously tranquil.

Her skin—for this was her sixth month with child—had acquired a wonderful translucent quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid look, seemed larger, darker than before.

Her skin—for this was her sixth month with child—had acquired a wonderful translucent quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid look, seemed larger, darker than before.

When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock.

For her, this was always a blissful time of day.

She knew he didn’t want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house.

She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man, and to feel—almost as a sunbather feels the sun—that warm male glow that came out of him to her when they were alone together.

He paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another.

When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of whisky in it.

She lowered herself back slowly into the chair, watching him all the time with those large, bewildered eyes.

Her first instinct was not to believe any of it, to reject it all.

Everything was automatic now—down the steps to the cellar, the light switch, the deep freeze, the hand inside the cabinet taking hold of the first object it met.

As the wife of a detective, she knew quite well what the penalty would be.

It came out rather peculiar.

And now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing now, she was returning home to her husband and he was waiting for his supper; and she must cook it good, and make it as tasty as possible because the poor man was tired; and if, when she entered the house, she happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock and she’d become frantic with grief and horror.

And now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing now, she was returning home to her husband and he was waiting for his supper; and she must cook it good, and make it as tasty as possible because the poor man was tired; and if, when she entered the house, she happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock and she’d become frantic with grief and horror.

She knew them both—she knew nearly all the men at that precinct—and she fell right into Jack Noonan’s arms, weeping hysterically.

While she was talking, crying and talking, Noonan discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the dead man’s head.

The murderer may have taken it with him, but on the other hand he may’ve thrown it away or hidden it somewhere on the premises.

The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated.

The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated.

The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated.

They stood around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands, uncomfortable in her presence, trying to say consoling things to her.

“Here you all are, and good friends of dear Patrick’s too, and helping to catch the man who killed him. You must be terrible hungry by now because it’s long past your supper time, and I know Patrick would never forgive me, God bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain in his house without offering you decent hospitality. Why don’t you eat up that lamb that’s in the oven? It’ll be cooked just right by now.”

And in the other room, Mary Maloney began to giggle.