And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. “But of course it’s aunt’s doing really. . ’ ‘Who were they?’ she asked abruptly. Prudence attacked her chicken wing. For a long time neither spoke again. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. She found her foster father and Mike still awake, playing high stakes UNO at the dimly lit kitchen table.
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