She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere. “Lucy. Her name is Lucia, she works in the Alberti Yarn Shop, across from Florestano the Butcher!” I happily rewarded her with a shiny new Florin and sent her off. I did not know what I was saying. Jack! Mon dieu, but he was unarmed. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. He was not due from the City until about six, and so she went and played Badminton with the Widgett girls until dinner-time.
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