“How do you feel?” she asked. “Dear me!” he said. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. “I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. And, incidentally, check on that unfortunate young fellow Kimble. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. In an instant, she turned on him.
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