She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. The psychic vibration of him thickened the air of the room as if he were already inside. It needs cultivating, I think. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. Here are their letters. . . My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “Well?” she said. “You mean to follow her.
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