" "The boy's not at my house," replied Wild. She would then partially recall the items that she had heard about him, presenting each at the angle that was the most likely to inflict pain. “You poor little girl!” he cried. His eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy; he let out a sigh. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. As usual the substantive sister—Prudence—did all the talking for the pair; Angelina, the shadow, offered only her submitting nods.
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