A little girl was out walking with her Grandmother. It was December, 31, 1923, some time in the early afternoon, and it was her birthday. She would be three years old when the big clock in the downstairs parlour of the Thompson home on Melville Avenue in Toronto struck midnight.
The little girl looked up at her grandma several times as they walked toward Christie Street, and then turned right toward Bloor. She wondered why she was so quiet, quieter than usual. The child had seen that look before, many times lately, with all that was happening; and it frightened her.
She had seen what happened to poor Lila, poor, beautiful Lila, never to be the same again, as time would tell. Continue reading