“Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. But Michelle’s heart seemed to grow fonder to the subject proportionally to Lucy’s avoidance of it. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. Homosexuals weren’t looked too kindly upon in their exclusive suburban neighborhood, not even dashing handsome ones. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. I asked him—to take me away.
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