Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. I told him the truth. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. “I hope that it has not done any harm. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. You may perceive harmony, proportion, rhythm, intensely. The horror of those few minutes was still with her. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. You see, it's like this. And now I've another job for you.
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