She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She frowned, appearing to think for a moment. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. They parked a block away from Michelle’s house in the opposite direction of where the Beck’s lived. Ah Cum was more or less familiar with alcoholic types. Still, he was puzzled because McClintock had not spoken. They had turned into the street, on the opposite side of which were the flats where Anna lived. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. They went first to a hotel, and then out again on to the boulevards. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered.
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