O'Higgins mounted the stairs, his step extraordinarily light for one so heavy. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. “They would spoil every chance. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch. Do not slight my warning.
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