Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. She leaned forward and addressed him. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. “Close your eyes.
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