Larry kept digging heartily into his spaghetti, not intrigued in the slightest. He wouldn’t like it if people did it to him. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Then the distant relationship to Miss Stanley gave them a slight but pleasant sense of proprietorship in the girl. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. “I’d sooner condemn you to Hell. .
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