“Mom, this is the girl I asked to Prom, Lucy. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’ ‘West Kent, yes. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. To disillusion her, forthwith. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays.
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