Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. His figure was uncommonly slim even for his age, which could not be more than thirteen; and the looseness of his garb made him appear thinner than he was in reality. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. One night she apparently fell asleep. I’ve no name for it yet. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. " There was another pause.
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