“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. No mercenary consideration influences me. She looked into his eyes, truly noticing their gray color for the first time. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. “I wonder if you give me a thought. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. She had finally managed to start breaking him down. “I see nothing of my sister,” she said. The tropical dawn is swift. Tonight Lucy doled out outré physiological theories of boys and their overactive hormones.
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