Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. Not wisely but too well. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. Then, if you are bad to me, I can more easily blow off your head. It was the beginning of June. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. I must not let you go again.
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