The well of tears in her eyes was dry. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. “They ought to have been lopped in the spring. I will neither stir hand nor foot for you more. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. It was not possible.
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