The conversation turned towards the subject of the Diedermayer’s many European vacations. \"I'll meet you at your locker after school. Um. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. It dropped sideways and fell with a bang to the table. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches.
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