A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. “Lucy, are you feeling all right?” He asked concernedly. " "Bless you for it. . . “You are late,” she murmured. “What makes you ask such a question, Vee?” she said. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. Babies and females have got to keep hold of somebody or go under—anyhow, for the next few generations. I cannot let you go. “Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed.
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