She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. “A girl needs her mother most exactly when she thinks she doesn’t. Take my child to—it is—oh God!—I am sinking—take it—take it!" "Where?" shouted Wood. God forgive you!" "May He, indeed, forgive me!" returned Trenchard, crossing himself devoutly; "but my guilt is not the less heavy, because your child escaped.
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