Believe me, Anna. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. "Can't you see? I can't hurt her, if … if she cares! I can't tell her I'm a madman as well as a thief!… What a fool! What a fool!" A thief. That's the sort of fool your nephew is!" "Not even a good time!" said the aunt, whimsically, as she stuffed the bills into her reticule. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved. Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her.
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