Lucia liked the doctor though, and he seemed to be very fond of her too. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Ennison paused by the little gate. ‘I have told you I will take Jacques. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions.
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