and who might she be , the lucky lady , wandering blindly and inexorably towards this horror , through the sparse and dismal crowds of the early evening in this same dreary region of town does she carry a carton of milk and a head of lettuce in a brown paper bag will she hurry at the sight of the cutthroats on the corner does she grieve for the old beachfront where she lived perhaps so contentedly before the architects and the decorators drove her to the cracked and peeling hostelries further away and what will he think when he finally spots her , this filthy angel of death will she be the very one to remind him of the mythic shrew of childhood , who beat him senseless only to be elevated to the nightmare pantheon of his subconscious , or are we asking too much i mean there are killers of this species who make not the smallest connection between symbol and reality , and remember nothing for longer than a few days .