’ ‘Fancy my old pa thinking you was a French spy. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she escaped him here. 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. There must be ways of getting rid of him.
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