“It’s the spring,” he said. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. “It is not, of course, a pleasant subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture to suggest to you that your sister’s—er—indiscretions—have reached a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity.
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