Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. That would be an unkind twist of fate. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. ” “I say,” she reflected, “you ARE rather the master, you know. She was extremely showily dressed, and her large hooped petticoat gave additional effect to her lofty stature. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance.
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