In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. . ‘Yes, for there were too many females for the vicomte to make me a dowry. Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll. ’ ‘And she’d be right,’ Martha said severely. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like.
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