D. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. They are used to me, they only cry because they have become so used to being here. But eventually Spurlock laughed. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. Probably something he had eaten. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern.
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