You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. Nothing would stop her, and she was prepared to face the consequences. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. He must not in any way call their attention to it. She smiled. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. Well, I've had to be.
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