Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. “Why?” “I still love you. The girl, with a little moan, crossed the room and threw open the window. 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. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp.
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