“What happened to your parents, Lucy? Is it all right if I ask?” Lucy looked at her with a soft gaze. She was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black. I'm speaking of virtuous women—of WIVES, Madam. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. But probably not the truth. Strange gurgle-like noises emanated from the crypt. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. My only love is for my poor lost son.
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