"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. “I think they do. They cleaned up the mess as best they could and she went home with him docilely. He did not move. Sc. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London. ” Lucy grew hot. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. The sun shined weakly through brief pinpricks 90 in the thick cloud cover, the weather was brewing a storm. The girl, with a little moan, crossed the room and threw open the window. O'Higgins wandered into this street and that, studying the signs and resenting the Britisher's wariness in using too much tin and paint. She went down, flushed and light-hearted, to the Widgetts’ after lunch to make some final arrangements and then, as soon as her aunt had retired to lie down for her usual digestive hour, took the risk of the servants having the enterprise to report her proceedings and carried her bag and hold-all to the garden gate, whence Teddy, in a state of ecstatic service, bore them to the railway station. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family.
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