Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. After all there are other things. She had never before heard the noise of firecrackers, and in the beginning the sputtering racket caused her to wince. She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. “The walk has given me an appetite, and I do not feel like waiting till five o’clock. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. ” “I ought to have—all the same.
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