‘Aye, sir. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. 126 Lucy drank them as the first rays of watery sunlight seeped through the mullioned windows, then put their husks in the claw-footed bathtub. He embraced her like her father once had. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. I hope that she is okay.
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