XI
"You can get away from people, but you can't get away from moths."
It was Martha herself, carrying a great paper bag of camphor-balls and a great roll of tarred paper, who announced this truth.
Rain was falling in torrents. Even the Poor Boy did not feel like going out. He looked with a certain longing at the bag of camphor balls.
"Going to put the furs away?"
Martha said that she was.
Time was hanging heavily that morning. There was neither music in the Poor Boy nor desire to read.
"I think—" he began, and was ashamed.
"You think?"
"Nothing."