Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. Every word you utter puzzles me. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. You think everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!.
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