“Then why didn’t you, Eleanor?” I asked.

There was no anger in my voice by then, only a great and terrible tiredness.

“Arthur was so angry,” she wept.

“You know how he gets.

You know what he’s like when he’s decided something.

I was afraid.” “You were inside a heated house,” I said.

“A beautiful, warm, safe house.

And my nine-year-old son was on the other side of the door in seven-degree rain, and he was knocking, and you could hear him.” “I’m frightened of Arthur too!” she wailed.