She attempted by a sheer act of will to end the scene, to will herself out of it anywhere. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. She was beautiful once, Lucia. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be. You’re all dependents—all of you. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. She had warned him. Treading with noiseless step over the soft mould, they soon reached the building.
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