Pierre stared at the wicker basket with the curiosity of a man with many things on his mind, but he didn’t want to focus on anything except for that basket. He contemplated the remarkably erratic weaving there in front of his face. There were irregular gaps, which in different circumstances would have been undesirable, but considering his predicament, Pierre thought they might be helpful. The reeds had been stained reddish brown, and the dye smelled awful. Pierre felt his eyes water. It was a practical basket in these revolutionary times. That was his last thought as his head tumbled it.