“Yes. ” “And you?” Annabel exclaimed. “Is that a challenge?” She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels. “No, that’s fine. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. ” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch—tea and roll at a cheap café. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. They were sharp and dripping with black blood. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. It pained Lucy to see Mike eating so sparely. . . He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown.
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