Lucy saw that perhaps she had been attracted to Martin all along. She recoiled. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. Some of my schemes are already in hand. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. Michelle stopped by the Beck’s after school that day. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. I’ve wanted you—always.
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