‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. Shari was to be protected, to be dissuaded from driving in cars with older boys at night, to be steered away from dope and beer and certain friends who had no plans to work or to go to college. She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. Better to remain silent. Just then—I was nervous. But I do not know you at all, in truth, and I do not understand why you do this. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me.
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