Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. He is delightful, is he not?’ ‘That will do, Lucilla. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. I’ve got nothing to do for a month but think. She gulped for air merely, for it had been difficult to breathe with his hand almost cutting off the supply to her lungs. 207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name.
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