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There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The Ragged Edge. He stopped abruptly. But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. .

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