But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She looked down at him and saw that the sunlight was gleaming from his cheeks, and that all over his cheeks was a fine golden down of delicate hairs. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. Suddenly she understood. At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse's tread.
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