Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. Lucy inhaled deeply. Go to it. What else was there lurked in shadows and deep places; if in some mood of reverie it came out into the light, it was presently overwhelmed and hustled back again into hiding. He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. "You base ingrate," she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.
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