CHAPTER XV. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all. “We should get out of here. They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. No matter how much you tell me, you will always keep something back. They walked back to 118 hand in hand. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. Soon, they fattened up, their cheeks rosy and their hair shining. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. “Is that plain?” she asked.
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