Ann Veronica wiped a scalpel, put a card over a watch-glass containing thin shreds of embryonic guinea-pig swimming in mauve stain, and dismantled her microscope. "Where?" she cried. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. The kiss was powerfully moving. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. "I know the hand—ha! my friend! and I have murdered him! And my sister was thus nobly, thus illustriously wedded.
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