[547] 'I don't know,' Ray said. He gave about twenty dollars to the young tennis player, who had opened the door to the patio to breathe a little of the garden air. They just noticed that she was running off, in the direction of the orchard called Frying Pan, and that Angel was running after her; both bicycles were left behind. 'Just pipe down,' Black Pan said.
He thought about the strain on Louise Tobey's face, and how her finger had stretched itself out in the rubber, and the way her nail had looked [314] ready to slice through. In his mind, he saw the orchard at harvest time—the long ladders were in the trees, the pickers were the orphans themselves. oung face an almost adult countenance—except for the silky smudge that marred his upper lip and made all his efforts at manhood ridiculous. 'Yup,' Homer said.
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