She pressed her cheek against the glass of the window, gazing out into the night. Then she leant over to me, clasping her hands. “How cruel it was, what he said to us!”
“Who?”
“The man there in Ransby.”
“But he didn’t speak to us. He was one of those people who shout at street-corners because they like to hear their own voices.”
“He was speaking to me,” she said, “though he didn’t know it.”
“Vi, you’re not growing nervous?”
“That isn’t the word. I’m looking forward and thinking how horrid it would be to have to hide always.”
“We shan’t.”
She looked at Dorrie, making no reply.
Presently she spoke again. “Dante, have you ever thought of it? I’m four years older than you are.”