Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. She entered quietly and padded up to her shared bedroom. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I’d been your father. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment.
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