” Anna looked at her steadily. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. “Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. “Here goes,” he said. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. Her eyes were wide and bright. ’ He nodded. . This made the eleventh. White assured her. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo.
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