\" Lucy said. . ’ ‘Let’s. ’ She shook her head. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. ‘I should have thought it was obvious. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. ” Annabel looked down. I arranged that he should. ’ Lucy was silent for a space, once again wearing that inscrutable expression. ‘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.
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