At Campbell College so many years ago, Dr Gass taught history with his wife. Well, he taught history, and his wife went everywhere he went, holding on to his elbow as if she were blind. She would walk into the classroom with him, let go of his arm, and go over to her seat at the front of the row next to the windows. She would sit there until class started, all the way through class, and until he put his papers back into his leather briefcase that was wider at the bottom and tight at the top, with a big strap that snapped on the front, and then she would stand up, loop her hand around his elbow, and out they would go, back to his office, or off to the bookstore, or to a different classroom. She never spoke a word--ever. She never looked at anything, really, she just moved her gaze around like a security camera goes back and forth. She never looked anybody in the eye, not even Dr Gass. She never made a grimace, nor a smile, nor any expression at all.
One day some students, who had observed that she was fastidious, or perhaps suffering from what today would be called OCD--obsessive/compulsive disorder--needing for things to be just so, moved the map stand (remember those? twenty or so maps on a wooden stand that you could flip over to the right one for the day?) just about two inches out of where it always stood. Dr and Mrs Gass came into the classroom, she detached from him and went to her seat, was halfway seated when she stopped in mid-motion, stood back up, went over to the map stand and moved it back to exactly where it had been for so many classes in a row--just so. The class laughed imperceptibly.
I heard that her children had perished in a house fire.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.