"And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone. .
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