Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had. I’m sorry Lucy. The flight. ’ ‘Damn you, I should have beaten you,’ Gerald swore, holding fast to his corner of the little square of linen. 136 They came out and said it: Lucy was needed at home to cook and clean. Out of an old family album: here was the very comparison that had eluded him. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name.
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