Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. “The father was in the army, and got a half-pay job at St. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it.
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