Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. ‘He could have little comfort there, indeed. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate tenacity to the roughened stones. Maggot had disappeared.
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