But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. “Silly!” he remarked after a pause. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll. Wanton! Had I been one, even God would have forgiven me, understanding. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat.
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