‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. She felt that she was not alone. She attempted by a sheer act of will to end the scene, to will herself out of it anywhere. Winifred's reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation. She broke this promise when she told me that my mother was this Mary, and not Suzanne Valade at all. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish.
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