Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. He tore his gaze away, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. She was carefree.
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