“You have been reading my letters,” she said quietly. Her mouth was tight with the words and her eyes blazed. The boy could say nothing. She struck him across the side of the face.

“Get out,” she said. “Get out of my room.”

The boy, the side of his face stinging and red, put the keys on the table on his way out. When he reached the door she called him. He stopped, his hand on the handle.

“You are dirt,” she hissed, “and always will be dirt. I shall remember this till the day I die.”