“I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. But the first one was brought home, and it was the beginning of the end. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. He appeared to be strangely uncommunicative, though I tried to draw him out. “You have killed me. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. Ennison, or any other young man. You Americans laugh at our custom of honouring our ancestors, our many-times great grandfathers. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew.
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