Stanley took the letter and stood with it in his hand thoughtfully for a time. He has no imagination, no real generosity. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of. “Thanks, so do you. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. “Really,” she said. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. My goodness gracious. What's all this about, anyhow? You. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity.
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