i sit on the bench in front of bell 's market and think about homer buckland and about the beautiful girl who leaned over to open his door when he come down that path with the full red gasoline can in his right hand - she looked like a girl of no more than sixteen , a girl on her learner 's permit , and her beauy was terrible , but i believe it would no longer kill the man it turned itself on ; for a moment her eyes lit on me , i was not killed , although part of me died at her feet .