[margin:7 November 1938]
The store in which the J.P.'s court was sitting smelled of cheese. The boy, crouched on his
nail keg at the back of the crowded room, knew he smelled cheese, and more: from where he
sat he could see them – the ranked shelves close-packed with the solid squat dynamic shapes of
the cans where labels his stomach could read, not from the lettering which meant nothing to his mind
but from the scarlet devils and the silver curve of fish – this, the cheese which he knew he
smelled and the hermetic meat which his intestines believed he smelled coming to him in inter-
mittent gushes momentary and brief between the other constant one – the smell and sense
just a little of fear because mostly of despair and grief, the old fierce pull of blood. He
could not see the table behind which the J.P. sat and before which his father and his
father's enemy (our enemy he thought in that fierce despair: <mine> <ourn!> ourn mine and hisn both!
He's my father:) stood, but he could hear them, the 2 of them that is, because his father had said
no word yet; <the one calm and detached, the other>

"But what proof have you, Mr. Harris?"