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Surely she could ignore him. “All the time he is shouting and muttering. Don’t you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?” “There is nothing particular the matter with the shade,” Anna answered, “but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it. They were sitting alone, Lucy. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. Supposing the wire should break and her head tumble off her shoulders into the street? The whimsey caused another smile to ripple across her lips. The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame.
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