Michael Malone - Weebly

photograph. And still now in that gush over Louie
Daytona, or even the selectman Cecil Hedgerow last
night at the fire. Well, Evelyn was up to something
moony and hidden again.
Something like the shrine or her running off, unwed,
with Hugo Eroica. But that was Evelyn. Tracy wouldn't
press her. She'd wait. In good time Evelyn would come
to her with a confession.
Yet Priss would not. Absentmindedly sipping tea in
which the bag still sat, turning the liquid to tannic acid,
Tracy puzzled now over a moral dilemma. On the one
hand, she believed that Priss had been in the wrong,
speaking so unfeelingly to Beanie and to her; but on the
other hand, should she cast Priss aside for that offense?
For she knew that Priss would be unable to ask
forgiveness, might even want to but simply would not be
capable of taking that first step any more than someone
whose legs were broken could climb a mountain. And
yet Priss would miss her; her absence would become
gradually a more conscious irritant in Priss's daily
activities. This Tracy knew from their past quarrels. She
suspected, in fact, that there was a way in which Priss,