It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. ’ ‘Yes,’ agreed Lucilla excitedly, ‘and she has been telling us how much of a friend she was to your mother. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. As usual, Lucy traced over parts of her experiences in her confidences with Shari, skipping lightly over her own 10 story as a pebble would over a lake. ‘That I do not yet know. We remember it. But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again.
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