<In the window The boy acquired his [spring board for hatred?] soon enough.> And memory knows this: not believes. Even 20
years later memory was still to believe "On this day I became a man." Since even in a child of 8 <memory has already lived as
long as the love or the hate of which is the> love or hate is as old as all the human history [margin:, chronicled or not,] which in the [moment of learning?]
and remembering is focalized.

It was Sunday a.m. In the window the <curtains> clean, darned curtains stirred faintly in a breeze smelling of turned earth
and crabapple. Upon the yellow imitation oak melodeon with its pedals padded with frayed pieces of worn-out carpet, sat
a fruit jar filled with larkspur. The boy sat in a straight chair beside the table on which was a nickel lamp and a
bible with brass clasps and a brass lock. He wore a clean white shirt without a collar, dark, harsh trousers. His shoes
had been blacked recently and clumsily, as a child of 8 would polish them, with small dull patches here and there where
the polish had failed to overlap. Upon the table facing him and open, lay a Presbyterian catechism.