He looked up. Miss Peterson was absently scribbling on the cover of her book, and listening intently.
“He was terrible, Graham. He accused me of all sorts of things, about you.”
He almost groaned aloud over the predicament he was in. It began to look serious.
“Suppose I pick you up and we have dinner somewhere?”
“At the same corner?”
“Yes.”
He was very irritable all morning. He felt as though a net was closing in around him, and his actual innocence made him the more miserable. Miss Peterson found him very difficult that day, and shed tears in her little room before she went to lunch.
Anna herself was difficult that evening. Her landlady's son had given up a good job and enlisted. Everybody was going. She supposed Graham would go next, and she'd be left alone.
“I don't know. I'd like to.”
“Oh, you'll go, all right. And you'll forget I ever existed.” She made an effort. “You're right, of course. I'm only looking ahead. If anything happens to you, I'll kill myself.”