(It was incredible that she and Christine should be talking
amicably about the weather.) Or when they went to the butcher's, he
hung behind in dread anticipation of the red-faced man's insolent "And
what about that there little account of ours, Ma'am?" But the
red-faced man smiled ingratiatingly and patted him on the back and
called him a fine young fellow. Christine counted out her money at the
desk. It made Robert dizzy with joy and pride to see her pay her bill,
and tears came into his throat and nearly choked him. On the way home
he behaved abominably, chased cats or threw stones with a reckless
disregard for their neighbours' windows, and Christine, looking into
his flushed, excited face, had a movement that was like the shadow of
his own secret fear.
"Robert, Robert, don't be so wild. You might hurt yourself--or someone
else. It frightens me."
And then at once he walked quietly beside her, chilled and dispirited.
At any moment the new-found commonplaces might drop from him, and
everyone would find out--the neighbours who nodded kindly and the
tradespeople who bowed them out of their shops--just as Francey and the
Banditti had found out--and turn away from him, ashamed and sorry.
He did not think of Francey very often. For when he did it was 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.
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