s almost
always in those last moments together that he remembered her--the
Francey who was too strong for him, the Francey who knew that he was a
nasty little boy who couldn't even beat a girl--who told lies--the
Francey who despised him. And then it was as though his body had been
bruised afresh from head to foot. But he still had her handkerchief.
He even kept it hidden from Christine lest she should insist on washing
it. For by now it was incredibly dirty.

In the day-time he never thought of his father at all. But in his
sleep one nightmare returned repeatedly. It never varied; it was
definite and horrible. In it his father, grown to demonic proportions,
towered over Christine's huddled body, his eyes terrible, his fists
clenched and raised to strike. Then in that moment, at the very height
of his awful fear and helpless hatred, the wonderful truth burst upon
Robert, and he danced gleefully, full of cruel triumph, about the
black, suddenly impotent figure, shouting:

"You can't--you're dead--you're dead--you can't----"

And then he would wake up with a hideous start, sweating, his eyes hot
with unshed tears, and Christine's hand would come to him out of the
darkness and clasp his in reassuring firmness.

There was another dream. Or, rather, it was half a dream and half one
of these stories that he told himself just before he fell asleep. It
came to him at dusk when he stood at the gate and waited for Christine
to come home. In the long day of silent games he had lost touch,
little by little, with reality. Hunger had made him faint and drowsy.
Things changed, became unfamiliar, fantastic. Between the stunted
trees he could see the afterglow of the sunset like the reflection of a
blazing city. The road then was full of silence and shadow. The drab
outlines grew faint and the mean houses were merged into the vaster
shapes of night. Robert waited, motionless, breathless. He was sure
that something was coming to him down the path of fading light. He did
not know what it was. Once, indeed, it had been Francey, with her
queer dancing step, her hair flying about her head like a flock of
little red-brown birds. She had hovered before him, on tiptoe, as
though the next gust of wind would blow her on her way down the street,
and looked at him. They had not spoken, but he had seen in her eyes
how sorry she was that she had not understood. And a warm content had
flowed over him. All the sore, aching pla