"But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. “Oh, Lucy. “There is my aunt,” she said. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. “Just like old times,” she thought sardonically. Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. Save us!" he cried, as his glance accidentally alighted on the drawing, which Winifred had dropped in her agitation.
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