’ Gerald was relieved to hear the loud guffaw issuing from the old man’s lips. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date. His firmness never deserted him till his old master, Mr. org. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. ’ Gerald tutted. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices.
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