Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. She screamed at Sebastian. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. “How are you, Lucy?” Martin ran to catch her in the crowded hall. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.
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