The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. You just married her. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her.
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