’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. “It couldn’t be. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. “Boys!” said Capes. As she raised it, its lower portion fell apart into two baggy crimson masses. She opened this and scrambled out—a thing she had not done for five long years of adolescence— upon the leaded space above the built-out bath-room on the first floor. Top-side insurance people. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she said. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged.
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