. . \" She knew he was blushing in the dark. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. He hated himself a little for it. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. Sheppard, smiling through her tears. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out.
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