Late that night I met James in the attic, and we did things we seldom did-things that caused him pain. I wanted him to cry out so that Miss Barton, who was probably lying awake in the room below us, would hear him and wonder why she had come to live with us.

As James and I left the attic, we paused on the stairway. It was difficult for him to stop touching me. As he held me, I looked over his shoulder into the dim light of the hallway below. Suddenly the door to Miss Barton's room opened and James's wife appeared. She moved quickly along the hallway and down the stairs toward her bedroom, glancing up briefly at me with an expression I did not recognize. She was barefoot and wearing a black leather coat.