Excerpt from The Ways of Jane: A Story With Which the Wise and Prudent Have No Concern

An old neighborhood, its houses were grow ing gray and infirm. Tall, gaunt sycamores shaded the brick-paved sidewalks, and elabor ate rusty iron fences inclosed the front yards. The old church stood on the corner, unused and desolate, casting long shadows. The Vir ginia creeper did its best to hide the dilapida tion, twining about the Corinthian pillars from which the plaster was slowly breaking away, reaching out across the cracked window panes, covering as if for very shame the words cut in the corner stone. My House, was all that could be made out now. It seemed to leave the question of ownership open, and served oddly enough to strengthen Jane's conviction that it belonged to her.

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