He crossed the last long fairway behind the hospital grounds, running as hard as he could. Ahead of him, the Chinaman sniffed the ground, then plunged through tree shadows, a mottled streak. As long as he kept going, Sherman could maintain a precarious equilibrium, concentrating on the single thought of getting to the house fast. It was when he paused to track his direction or lift the rusty tines of a wire fence to climb through that the rage surged in him again, like quick poison through all his senses. The unexpected shock of what had happened struck him in waves. The bitch, he thought again and again; the bitch, the lousy bitch. Leaving the lawn, he jumped into the rough grass. In the dark room, he had thought she was a nurse. Since she was dressed in pale going-home clothes, he’d thought she was coming in to say good night to his sister. As soon as she left, he’d planned to help Mamie finish dressing in the clothes he’d stolen from clotheslines; then he’d lower her out the window and escape into the night.
