"Did you write it?" "No. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. She would compose extremely lucid and honorable explanations. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. . That was an admission all right. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Lucy sighed, finding it odd to switch roles as she had over the past weeks. He had never liked to be hugged, but she wondered if his corporeal needs would be made apparent by human touch. He turned to Ruth and McClintock.
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