Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. “A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk.
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