His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. “Does he live here?” he asked her presently. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. 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.
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