She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. His new wife’s face was sweet and angelic with hair the color of flax, her belly already visibly large beneath a roe skin pelt. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. “Can you give me any information as to this affair?” he asked. I won't keep you long. Hill, Meysey Hill.
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