The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. Lucy knocked again. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. Perhaps that was why Sheila began to observe Lucy, because both of them were poignantly aware of Lucy’s otherness. The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable.
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