The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. They were sounding more and more like Civic every day. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand.
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