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“My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. She could tell that he was leering at her. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for.
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