Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. He recognised this object at once. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. All I had to do was to piece them together. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. After all, that was life. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. ’ ‘You little fiend,’ exclaimed Gerald wrathfully.
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