She withdrew her head with a little moan, and resumed her flight. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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