“But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. “What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. This lapse was possibly due to her apparent determination to make full protest of Hilary’s conduct. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed.
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