He then barred and double-locked the door, took out the key, (a precautionary measure which, with a grim smile, he said he never omitted,) thrust it into his vest, and motioning the couple to follow him, led the way to the inner room. “I WILL be arrested! I WON’T go home!” the little old lady was screaming over and over again. He wanted to talk with the patient, test him variously; and he wanted to be alone with him while he put these tests. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. Mr. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. You will stop at once. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. Cathy answered the phone. But she had loved the man.
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