She put the bottle of whisky on the table beside him. “There it is,” she said and she put beside it the rest of the money.
With fumbling fingers he checked the money, before slipping it into his pocket. Then he stood up and stretched. Although he was tall, his great shoulders gave him a squat look. He turned his face in her direction. “Go on in I wantta talk with you.”
She went into the living-room, leading off the verandah. It was a large room, untidy and full of aged and decaying furniture. Hogan followed her in. He moved with quick, cat-like steps, avoiding in some extraordinary way any obstacles that lay in his path. Blindness had not anchored him. He had been like that for ten years. At first the darkness had suffocated him, but he had fought it, and, like all his other fights, he had beaten it. Now it was of little hindrance to him. He could do most things he wanted to. His hearing had intensified and served him for his eyes.
Myra stood sulkily by the table. She made patterns with her flimsy shoes on the dusty floor.
Hogan went to a cupboard, found a glass, and poured himself out a stiff shot of whisky. Then he went over to the one overstuffed chair and folded himself down in it. He took a long pull from the glass.
“What’s your age now?” he asked abruptly. The two yellow clots fixed on her.
“Seventeen.”
“Come here,” Hogan said, reaching out a great thick arm. She didn’t move.
“If I come an’ get you, you’re goin’ to have grief.”
She moved over to him reluctantly, and stood just by his knees. “What is it?” she asked, her face a little scared.