The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. But indeed that is not at all a good description of her attitude. You can test it out on us this Thanksgiving Sunday. I'll go alone. I knew it was only a matter of time before the boys started paying attention to you, Lucy. She sat very still, and his eyes rested on that ornament for a moment, and then travelled slowly to her wrist and the soft lines of her forearm.
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