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"The nurses," she answered. ” “I am really curious,” she persisted. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. ’ ‘How do you know?’ Lucilla repeated, almost as sceptical as her intended spouse. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. "I'll make a sketch, too," he said. ’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness.
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