Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. It was something that would create a mutual claim, a relationship. So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Lucy asked. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. ” “Will you remember me?” “Unfortunately. The rest of his attire was nondescript.
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