Rose

 "I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said. "Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom--" "I want the best you have. I don't care what kind." The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is--" "Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?" "Is . . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want--" "I want arsenic."

-A Rose For Emily by William Faulkner.