“Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. It was grated and crested with spikes, like that he had just burst open, and thinking it a needless waste of time to force it, he broke off one of the spikes, which he carried with him for further purposes, and then climbed over it. She could have dined alone in her room; but courage had demanded that she face the ordeal and have done with it. "You forgot your lunch," she said. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. Then, there's Mr.
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