She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. “Lucy. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. “So, since when does a grown man have to sneak behind the Laundromat to smoke a cigarette?” She asked 115 him. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. . ’ ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ said the nun, evidently not mollified, but she was forestalled.
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