"Good night, Stonehouse."
"Good night, sir."
Robert took off his battered cap politely as did other boys. Mr.
Ricardo scrambled into the 'bus with an unexpected agility, and from
the bright interior in which he sat a huddled, faceless shadow, he
waved. Robert waved back. A fresh rush of elation had lifted him out
of his sorrowful weariness. His disgrace had been miraculously turned
to a kind of secret triumph. He was different; but then, how
different! He didn't wear chains or a ring through his nose. He was
going to know things that no one else knew. And one day he would be
big and free.
5
It did not last. By the time he had dragged himself up to the top of
their stairs there was nothing left but hunger, the consciousness of
tattered, blood-stained clothes, and a sore, tired body. After all, he
was only a small boy who had wanted to play with other boys, and had
been cast out. Even Mr. Ricardo could never make them play with him.
It was dark in the sitting-room. Against the grey, ghostly light of
the window he could see Christine bowed over her typewriter. She was
so still that she frightened him. All the terrors of night which lay
in wait for him ever since his fathers dead hand had touched his door
and opened it, rushed down upon him with a sweep of black, smothering
wings. He called out "Christine! Christine!" in a choked voice, and
she moved at once, and he saw her profile, sharp-drawn and unfamiliar.
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