Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. He smiled inwardly. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. “Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong.
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