“But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. She was finally dead, going to Hell. It’s horrible to think of you!” “You’re an awful brick, Teddy!” she said. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet.
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