“When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. In a moment, Roding and Lucilla joined him. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. 133 “TRY ME!” He yelled, his voice booming into the cacophony beyond the walls. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune.
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