She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. 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. 277 “I was beginning to think that I would never see you again, Lucy.
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