"Do not endanger yourself on my account," rejoined his mother. Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. Coat, on the present occasion, he had none, it being more convenient, as well as agreeable to him, to pursue his avocations in his shirtsleeves; but, when fully equipped, he wore a large-cuffed, long-skirted garment, which had once been the property of his master. “I think they do. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. Spiders came out of their hiding places to commune in windows, industriously spinning their own designs over the stained glass. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. It does sound a little horrid to talk so much about oneself and to have views. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband? His luck was in.
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