I think it's time.

You give it to him from me, and tell him I say I believe I can trust him with it now.

I took it away from him thirty-five years ago, one day after he'd killed my best hen with it, accidentally, and broken a glass pitcher on the back porch with it--accidentally.

He doesn't look like a person who's ever done things of that sort, and I suppose he's forgotten it so well that he believes he never DID, but if you give it to him from me I think he'll remember.
You look like him, Penrod.

He was anything but a handsome boy." After this final bit of reminiscence--probably designed to be repeated to Mr.Schofield--she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, and returned with a pitcher of lemonade and a blue china dish sweetly freighted with flat ginger cookies of a composition that was her own secret.