As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. Promise me that you’ll contact the police if she ever calls you on the phone, or worse, shows up at your school. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. Gerald hoped he had covered all options and had resisted the temptation to pay mademoiselle a visit. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping.
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