” Lucy blinked from the winter sunlight and reached behind herself to yank at her hood. She tore open the envelope and read it. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. . Still, I am curious. I'll talk to her in the morning, but she won't understand what I'm driving at. CHAPTER XII.
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