Unformatted text preview: ned here, it was my fault, and you didn't kill your aunt. It wasn't you. It was a coinci- dence. How could what you were doing here kill her?" And Mona, indeed, had seemed to snap back with the fierce exuber- ance of the very young-and something else too, a steadiness he had sensed in her from the beginning, the cold self-sufficiency of a drunk- ard's child, of which he knew a great deal on his own account. She was no ordinary little girl, Mona. But it still had been wrong, a man of his age with a girl of thirteen. How could he have done it? But the strange thing was this-the house did not despise him for it, and it seemed that the house knew. For the moment, however, the sin had been lost in the shuffle. Just lost. Last night, before the wake, Mona and Ancient Evelyn had taken out the books from the shelf and discovered the pearls and the gramo- phone and Violetta's waltz on a shiny old RCA Victor record. The same gramophone. He had wanted to ask-but they had talked in rushed, excited voices. And Gifford had been waiting for them. "We cannot play it now," said Ancient Evelyn, "not with Gifford dead. Close the pi...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10