Her parents totally look the other way. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. “You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. “Bit thick on the old man, isn’t it?” said Roddy, who had developed a bluff, straightforward style in the motor shop. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. She looked at him gravely and squinted. Shari entered the room in a damp towel, fresh from the shower. His hand flew across the paper.
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