"We went through your belongings. She could no longer wait. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. Lucy thought he was the most handsome man in the entire world. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious.
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