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Let—it—fall. I have worn it for weeks and weeks. ‘Hilary was right. “What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. But I may yet live to thwart them. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. "Well?" he said, as Spurlock reached his side. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her.
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