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. 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