Lucy stared like an automaton at Michelle’s unconscious 262 body, revolted at her own actions to the point of shock. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown of light material, and stood near the corner where the women's dresses had just been thrown down, quite out of sight of all the party, except Mrs. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. But he had been forewarned by his great-nephew.
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