The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. Boys were ordered to wear white buttondown shirts and pleated black trousers. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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