"I don't remember much. Every thought seemed to have gone out of my mind. Afterwards I was so numbed—why, I didn't even recognize my own car or know that I had a car."
"Did you touch him—look at him, then, did you, Ronnie?"
Ronald Morelle answered with a gesture.
"Did you—?"
"I looked at him, but only for a second. He was reciting a poem. Henley's. I was reading it today, trying to recall things. That was all, I just looked into his eyes and I was feeling hateful toward him, Christina. And that was all. He began to moan and cry out. I was terribly distressed."
She said no more. She wanted to be alone with her mad thoughts. When he rose to go, she was glad.
"I'll come again on Wednesday," he said, but corrected his promise. "No, Wednesday is wash-day. Your mother will not want me here."
"How do you know, Ronnie, that it is mother's wash-day?" She was addressing him as if he were a child from whom information must be coaxed.
"I don't know. Evie may have told me—of course it is Wednesday, Christina!"
She nodded.