There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. ’ ‘Nonsense. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois. We must never let your father know we went. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely. She doesn’t like you because she says the Beck’s are not ‘our kind of people’ which is her code for them not being rich enough. She realized that with a pang of disgust and horror. ” Lucy said tenderly. .
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