She could scarcely remember the time when she had not waited for Carter at night.
Once, long ago, she had confided her secret to one of her uncles, and he had laughed and told her that boys would be boys.

After that she had kept things to herself.
There was but one other person in the world to whom she had spoken, and that was Sandy Kilday.

As she looked back it seemed to her there was nothing she had withheld from Sandy Kilday.

Nothing?
Sandy's face, as she had last seen it, despairing, reckless, hopeless, rose before her.

But she had asked him to come back, she was ready to surrender, she could make him understand if she could only see him.
Why had he not come?
The question multiplied itself into numerous forms and hedged her in.