My whole body is just a-quiverin' with cleanness

Davis Grubbs' sketches for Night of the Hunter that he gave to Laughton.  Combine this with Agee's scrapped idea that the switchblade in the strip club would erupt through the Preacher's pants, the remaining fact of the pot of fudge splattering up at a moment of damp charm, "the slit in her throat like she had an extra mouth," four profoundly under-fucked women, rabbits snatched into the night: all this means all the more that the swerve into a hamfisted Christian moral Christmas tale at the end is a desperate attempt to clamp down on what would have been - and still is - one of the dirtier films the States ever made.  A fairy tale in the way that The Devil in Miss Jones is a fairy tale.

... perfumed smelling thing.  lacy things...

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