” “John, do you remember me at all?” “Lucy?!” He cried in disbelief. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. Surely it was a dream. An unwelcome idea came to him. Mary Lucia was branded “the earliest riser and the best at keeping up with her chores” by the formidable Sisters at the orphanage. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea.
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