Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Who's the lucky boy, Lucy?\" Lucy looked at her slippered feet. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. “How is that carmine working?” he asked, with a forced interest. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. Perhaps it was loneliness. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red corpuscle. She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery.
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