He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. Gossip was the driving force in Sheila’s existence. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. Having worked thus for another quarter of an hour without being sensible of fatigue, though he was half stifled by the clouds of dust which his exertions raised, he had made a hole about three feet wide, and six high, and uncovered the iron bar. ‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. ‘That’s better.
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