Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. "Fire!—murder—thieves!—I've got one of 'em!" "Come along," cried Jack.
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