She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. “Mom, this is the girl I asked to Prom, Lucy. Petrified and speechless, he turned an imploring look at Wild, who was himself filled with astonishment at the pile of rubbish lying before him. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself.
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