She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. At least for one moment, it was. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. They walked back to 118 hand in hand. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing.
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