You’re going to live under the cat’s foot. She heard the television blaring away. But also this must not go on. Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. "My name is Kneebone," added the portly personage, stepping forward.
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