F. “You, too,” he said abruptly. He became really companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked some questions about colour. ‘I am sure you will. Why don’t you just tell me what is going on with you! Why the police questioned you! Why they’re looking for your mother? I’ll understand! Just tell me and I swear to God Lucy I’ll understand. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. Gay. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room.
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