Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. Both husband and wife affected an unnatural ease of manner for the benefit of the efficient parlor-maid, who was putting the finishing touches to the sideboard arrangements. Lucy could see the anger in her silhouette, the punishments and the grounding being formulated for the now dead daughter. “Why come after me after all these years, Sebastianus? Haven’t you found any sycophants to convert, any nubile young nymphets to bring into the cannibal flock?” “Why should I do that if there is still the chance of you?” “What if there could be no chance of me? How do you know you can have me?” “I see your game. And Mother trusted him. I felt I MUST do something anyhow, and up I came just as soon as I could to see you. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. Perhaps if I had watched over her more closely, things would have been different. She crushed the letter in her hand. Somehow to-night—I don’t know.
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