“She has been to my flat before. ‘Well, if that’s what the good Lord wants, then you’ll just have to accept it. ” “Why? What did Missy ever do to piss her off? What did I do?” Lucy asked, growing defensive. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. She evolved a dim image of herself cooped up in a house under the benevolent shadow of Mr. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad.
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