Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. A neat tale, giving little away. “A wonderful piece of work,” he declared. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. God knows how you did it.
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