Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. Jolly hard life for a girl, getting a living. It was after all a momentary affair. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. ’ ‘But, Hilary—’ ‘Don’t you begin, Lucilla, for I won’t stand for it. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers.
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