She turned towards the door, and had taken a pace towards it when it was flung open. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe. I want you beyond measure or reckoning. “I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. Do you think that I am utterly selfish?” She raised her eyebrows. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk.
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