The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. Silk. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality. This double buffetting had sharpened her shrewdness and insight. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. You certainly had to hand it to these Chinks.
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