” Lucy cried, drawing attention from the somber crowd. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. “I love you. John stared palely. ‘That’s wicked, that is. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight.
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