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216 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 1984
When Ned ate his early Sunday supper on the porch, the sky flared like fire, and the monastery bells, ringing for vespers, seemed to be working their way through hot tar.
His mother was staring at him. He suddenly knew she was trying to read his face, and he felt a strange burst of relief. He hadn’t quite convinced her, in a way he couldn’t understand, that made him feel safer.
“I think I did,” Evelyn said, picking a tiny fragment of eggshell out of her hair. “Now look at that!” she exclaimed. “I wonder where it ever came from.”
He was looking straight at Ned. His mouth moved. Then is hand began a hesitant, inching journey toward Ned’s hand, which rested on the coverlet. . . . He felt the touch of Mr. Scully’s finger, then gradually his whole hand covering Ned’s own. There was the faintest pressure, so faint, Ned wasn’t sure how he knew there’d been any at all.