She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others. Sheppard, faintly. At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains.
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