Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. ’ ‘Uh-oh,’ came from her infuriating suitor and his eyes dropped to the weapon she was dragging from the holster under her petticoat. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. He walked with bent head. But a girl is soiled not only by evil but by the proximity of evil, and a reputation for rashness may do her as serious an injury as really reprehensible conduct. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. .
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