But he held the smile until she turned away from the curtain. She was weeping now. “As a matter of fact, I deserve to. She glimpsed Chinese penury when she entered a square given over to the fishmongers. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. My boys are all Sandwich Island born. For she knew that men married to get something. Rummage, my boy, do. She is, in her way, a dear. I am grateful, indeed I am.
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