“Lucy, that’s horrible. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. Capes flashed to an understanding of her intention, sprang to his feet, and opened the door for her retreat.
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