“Listen,” she said. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel. "Then you need no further information from me," rejoined Jackson, sternly. I have only just left Wych Street. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination.
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