” Lucy reflected. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. ” “Do you still love him?” “Just the opposite. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. ’ ‘Why should Gérard care?’ sneered Gosse.
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