“TROUSERS!” she whispered. ’ I said. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. I always thought that I could find and destroy all of her children, but there was no keeping up with it. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. Lucy ate without passion. He could not know about the Remenham connection, could he? No one knew but her father and Martha. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. She was nearly dead. Michelle looked at their reflections in the wall mirror.
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