She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. You simply can’t. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. She began to feel odd sensations while peering busily at his shoulder and profile. She was given a glimpse of his soul. Walking to the station with him.
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