She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. As he felt the threshold of soft wetness he froze and said, “Lucy, are you sure?” She whispered, “Yes,” and guided the top of his penis into her vagina. I know you’re young but I think I, no, I know that I love you. “I have come for an explanation,” she said. He seemed to charge her with the ruin of their situation.
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