She had never understood how much knowledge had been kept from her because she was a woman and even began to doubt the methods of the Church, something she never would have dared before. “How did you find me?” She asked. 127 “But Mary Lucia, it isn’t what it looks like! She’s an old friend, there’s nothing serious going on!” Without a word, she about-faced and flew down his steps, running fast, jumping four steps at a time. You’re of age— you’re of age. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. He flung aside all his talk of help and disinterested friendship as though it had never been even a disguise between them, as though from the first it was no more than a fancy dress they had put quite understandingly upon their relationship. She was too late. She was still good at following orders. At any rate she must see me. I found him lying like this, the bleeding partly stopped by this scarf, else he had been dead by now. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it. I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. She was already a little prepared by her discursive reading and discussion under the Widgett influence for ideas and “movements,” though temperamentally perhaps she was rather disposed to resist and criticise than embrace them. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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