When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. “Was I that bad?” He asked. 3.
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