127 “But Mary Lucia, it isn’t what it looks like! She’s an old friend, there’s nothing serious going on!” Without a word, she about-faced and flew down his steps, running fast, jumping four steps at a time. Between him and the beach stood the sum of six hundred dollars. Took and ran away when she got herself with child. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. You never can tell. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life.
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