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blouse.
    Feebly she said, ‘Now, Svevo –’
    He arose, chucked her under the chin, his lips smiling fiendishly to inform her that this show of affection was not sincere, and walked out of the room.
    ‘Oh Marie!’ he sang, no music in his voice, only hatred pushing a lyrical love song out of his throat. ‘Oh Marie. Oh Marie! Quanto sonna perdato per te! Fa me dor me! Fa me dor me! Oh Marie, Oh Marie! How much sleep I have lost because of you! Oh let me sleep, my darling Marie!’
    There was no stopping him. She listened to his feet on thin soles as they flecked the floor like drops of water spitting on a stove. She heard the swish of his patched and sewed overcoatas he flung himself into it. Then silence for a moment, until she heard a match strike, and she knew he was lighting a cigar. His fury was too great for her. To interfere would have been to give him the temptation of knocking her down. As his steps approached the front door, she held her breath: there was a glass panel in that front door. But no – he closed it quietly and was gone. In a little while now he would meet his good friend, Rocco Saccone, the stonecutter, the only human being she really hated. Rocco Saccone, the boyhood friend of Svevo Bandini, the whiskey-drinking bachelor who had tried to prevent Bandini’s marriage; Rocco Saccone, who wore white flannels in all seasons and boasted disgustingly of his Saturday night seductions of married American women at the Old-time dances up in the Odd Fellows Hall. She could trust Svevo. He would float his brains on a sea of whiskey, but he would not be unfaithful to her. She knew that. But could she? With a gasp she threw herself into the chair by the table and wept as she buried her face in her hands.

Chapter Two
    It was a quarter to three in the eighth-grade room at St Catherine’s. Sister Mary Celia, her glass eye aching in its socket, was in a dangerous mood. The left eyelid kept twitching, completely out of control. Twenty eighth graders, eleven boys and nine girls, watched the twitching eyelid. A quarter to three: fifteen minutes to go. Nellie Doyle, her thin dress caught between her buttocks, was reciting the economic effects of Eli Whitney’s cotton gin, and two boys behind her, Jim Lacey and Eddie Holm, were laughing like hell, only not out loud, at the dress caught in Nellie’s buttocks. They had been told time and time again to watch out, if the lid over Old Celia’s glass eye started jumping, but would you look at Doyle there!
    ‘The economic effects of Eli Whitney’s cotton gin were unprecedented in the history of cotton,’ Nellie said.
    Sister Mary Celia rose to her feet.
    ‘Holm and Lacey!’ she demanded. ‘Stand up!’
    Nellie sat down in confusion, and the two boys got to their feet. Lacey’s knees cracked, and the class tittered, Lacey grinned, then blushed. Holm coughed, keeping his head down as he studied the trade lettering on the side of his pencil. It was the first time in his life he had ever read such writing, and he was rather surprised to learn it said simply, Walter Pencil Co.

    ‘Holm and Lacey,’ Sister Celia said. ‘I’m bored with grinning goons in my classes. Sit down!’ Then she addressed the whole group, but she was really speaking to the boys alone, for the girls rarely gave her trouble: ‘And the next scoundrel I catch not paying attention to recitation has to stay until six o’clock. Carry on, Nellie.’
    Nellie stood up again. Lacey and Holm, amazed that they had got off so easy, kept their heads turned toward the other side of the classroom, both afraid they might laugh again if
    Nellie’s dress was still stuck.
    ‘The economic effects of Eli Whitney’s cotton gin were unprecedented in the history of cotton,’ Nellie said.
    In a whisper, Lacey spoke to the boy in front of him.
    ‘Hey, Holm. Give the Bandini a gander.’
    Arturo sat in the opposite side of the room, three desks from the front. His head was low, his chest against the desk, and