It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. Wood's famous 'prentice?" "What apprentice?" asked the stranger, in surprise. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. Teddy handed her into the second-class compartment her season-ticket warranted, and declared she was “simply splendid. I'll call for you this afternoon when Wu is on. But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night.
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