“But perhaps I want to confess them. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud. ” She relented. She looked at him curiously. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. She is in the hall now. Auntie has taken the nails out of my palms, but the scars will always be there.
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