Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. It was hard to meet that gaze. “Delicious!” she murmured. 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. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. One of the reasons why I decline to talk is this: that boy's punishment will be enough.
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