Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. “You are neither of you in the least like the ordinary boarding-house young man. Promise me. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. Jack, however, had an expedient for mastering this difficulty.
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