” Anna had reached the house where she lodged, but she hesitated on the doorstep. The key is in my trousers. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. What they do with him afterward is off my ticket, no concern of James Boyle; they can lock him up or let him go. “Just look that through, will you.
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