He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. She received into her slack grasp the pistol and dagger, only half aware of taking them. A sprinkling of callow youths, and a couple of pronounced young Jews, who were talking loudly together in some unintelligible jargon of the City. ’ Lucilla sat up. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. Not a scar but has its history. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue.
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