The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. I want to get away. I get along with my Mom sometimes, Lucy. Not at all. Gerald’s chest tightened. Some foul murder has been committed. And she would have to go tomorrow. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death.
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