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He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. It was a dark mysterious place, and what it was used for no one exactly knew; but it was called by those who had seen it the Well Hole. “Mine is a primitive and unstudied manner. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go.
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