Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. Think! You could not have done it. “Home, of course,” she answered. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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