Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. She felt much better. “Hi. ” Lucy replied. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. “How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven’s sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. He spoke only when he saw the sing-song girl he wanted to buy. When I think of it—” “But these are things I want to tell you now!” “I made a little song of it. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. I tell you—never mind the bill.
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