Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. “She doesn’t know. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. She ran through the backyards of Pinecrest subdivision, piano wire and a slim jim tucked into her pantyhose. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. The significance of the kiss was still obscure to her, though she had frequently encountered the word and act in the Old and New Testaments and latterly in novels. ” “You and your father?” Lucy asked. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. Very quietly, he added, “Oh Lucia, I’m sorry.
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