Comma

"I can see Mary Joplin now, in the bushes crouching. In the hottest summer (and this was it) Mary had a sniffle, and she would rub the tip of her upturned nose, meditatively, with the back of her hand. Buried in the grass we talked: myself monosyllabic, guarded, eight years old, wearing too-small shorts of black-and-white check, that had fitted me last year: Mary with her scrawny arms, her kneecaps like saucers of bone, her bruised legs. On those buzzing afternoons our wandering had a veiled purpose, we drew closer and closer to the Hathaways' house."