The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head.
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