Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. “Look here,” he said, protruding his eyes; “why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said.
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