It isn’t such fun as it seems. “Then what did you do?” Lucy’s eyes leveled with her. Grudgingly he admired her. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. It is the immediate inspiration of confidence; it alleviates pain, because we know by that smile that pain is soon to leave us; it becomes the bulwark against our depressive thoughts of death; and it is the promise that we still have a long way to go before we reach the Great Terminal.
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