“What do you mean?” his aunt asked, fixing on him needle-pointed eyes.
He poked the glowing logs and made no reply.
“Edwin!”
“Yes, aunt.”
“Has anything happened?”
He poked the logs.
“Speak to me, Edwin. Tell me all.”
He poked the logs.
Aunt Charity put down her knitting, strode to him, placed her hands on his shoulders and bent a face lined with foreboding toward his.
“Edwin Dell,” she questioned, hoarsely; “what has New York done to you?”